I suppose in some ways grief and trauma does make you a better writer, in that the weeks after Ezra's death I did write more – whether or not that writing was any good is to be debated. Some have said it was very touching, and more people than I would care to think have read my thoughts around those days. It was very cathartic for me to get those things down and into the void, as it were, while I didn't particularly want responses the act of writing for oneself is a bit dull. There is weirdly not the same feeling there.

You can still something without actively doing it – you can be a builder if you're not building, for example, and you can be a mother without mothering. They are things that one becomes, but I suppose in this case one never stops calling themselves a mother, whereas one can stop calling themselves a builder after a change of profession. I believe that being a writer probably involves more time not writing than it does writing, which is quite convenient. Maybe my long hiatus from writing anything (of real note) makes me much more a writer than having written does.

Rosier is the surname of a character in The Portrait Of A Lady, it is the surname of a Harry Potter character, a favourite Slytherin. It's also Ezra's middle name. And, I think, lends itself, as a word, to how I feel (or at least want to feel) about the future.

Something Rosier. Not quite rosy. And not quite sure what. Rosy brings to mind "rose-tinted glasses", the perception that something is better than it actually is, being optimistic. I can no longer be that way. Grief has taken those (to use the common metaphor) "glasses" off, so when I look at myself and my situation, and others and their situations, I can't help but be realistic. No longer are lack of movements on baby monitors (which aren't on my baby) nothing to worry about, and no longer are lack of movements in my womb just passed off with "he/she is just being lazy!" because, as every other loss parent, and person that is pregnant after a loss knows: unlikely does not mean impossible.

However, I believe it is important for everybody, including myself, to understand that we have no obligation to be optimistic and that being realistic is perfectly fine. It may come across as pessimism but that pessimism is our new reality. That's something that those not in our situation seem to find difficult to get their heads round. That's okay, too, nobody expects you to fully understand the minds and thought processes of those burdened by such tragedy. Acknowledging that you won't understand it completely, rather than trying to pretend that you do, is much better. Empathy works wonders. For us, acknowledging that and being scared is fine. So I shan't be hard on myself when the bad days come. There are hopefully good things to come and why shouldn't I acknowledge that? But at the same time, why should I ignore the sadness I have already known and the understanding that things can, and do, go wrong? It's easy to come across as, or feel, ungrateful for future good things when you're still so, so sad.

Answer is that it shouldn't be ignored.

I think these kinds of things a lot, I think about how she could die when she's in my womb, how she could die when she's being born, how she could die when she's here as baby, a toddler, a teenager, and so on. I think about what other people think. Do people I know think Why is she buying bigger clothes? The last one didn't make it. I'd imagine not. My friends have all been beyond perfect for this past year, understanding that grief does not stop when you think it should, but instead is carried with us every single day. I hope that Ezra's life and his death (and Buddy's short gestation) have equipped them with the knowledge to deal with this situation should they ever come across it, and with the strength should they ever go through the same thing – touch wood that doesn't happen. Accepting that you couldn't possibly understand the wild depths of something you haven't experienced is the first step in that.

But I'm still so happy to be where I am in this pregnancy, I'm so grateful that it's got this far, that she exists.

Onwards and forwards. Maybe not necessarily upwards, but we all have our days. All I can do it to try and be gentle with myself. So far, so good.