I have a pit in my stomach. A feeling of nausea mixed with sadness that gets stronger each day.

Simchas Torah is coming.

A day usually filled with unbridled joy and exuberance makes me want to curl up in my bed.

The images of all the babies and children dancing around the shul (synagogue) keep playing over and over again in my mind, in an endless loop. And even though I have my rainbow babies, I ache thinking about the years of my empty womb and broken dreams.

It’s customary during this day to gather the little ones under a big prayer shawl for a special blessing. That’s the point when I would usually lose it the most, silently sobbing in my seat, eventually having to leave the building to compose myself. I finally stopped attending services on Simchas Torah during the years when I multiple miscarriages, because it was too much.

But a few years ago, after @yesh_tikva came out with their fertility prayer, our Rabbi started reciting it publicly, in Hebrew and in English, before the kids gathered under the big Tallis. In the midst of the crazy hullabaloo with lots of children (and adults) talking and laughing, he managed to get everyone quiet. He then spoke briefly and poignantly about how this is a joyous time for many, but for others in our community, the pain of infertility and loss is felt deeply when so much happiness is on display. He then asked everyone to read along while he recited the prayer, and think of those who are still waiting and longing.

And each year, when he does it, I am still a mess.

Because the pain doesn’t ever go away.
And the memory of all those years of longing get condensed into this weird moment of communal celebration juxtaposed onto my private grief.

Because even after you have a rainbow, you never forget the storm that came before.