I woke up this morning, got dressed, and went out walking. "You're amazing," my friend tells me. "Since when is getting dressed so amazing?" I ask her. "It is amazing so soon after a miscarriage," she tells me. "I think I would still be in bed, crying all day." "What choice do I have?" I ask her "Life has to go on."

When you miscarry, life goes on. There is no shiva, no funeral, and luckily, this time I was able to avoid giving birth to the fetus, despite that fact that I was already twenty weeks along. I had the baby removed surgically three days ago, and now- it is time to move on.

Grief comes in waves Grief comes in waves. Moving on is not a simple process. Waves of grief crash over me at unexpected moments. Still it is necessary to keep going, to embrace the mundane details of life and keep on living. I know, because I speak from experience.

Two years ago, I lost a baby at twenty three weeks. The loss was followed by a post-partum depression that has taken me almost two years to recover from. This time, I know that spending all day in bed crying is a luxury I cannot allow myself. It is necessary to keep moving.

I walk. I walk with friends. I walk alone. I embrace the movement of the body, a powerful rhythm that will carry me through this painful time to a time when it is possible to almost forget that I was once pregnant. I walk into the future, towards a time when it is almost possible to forget that I wanted this baby desperately, not only for myself, but also for my father, who recently passed away, and for whom I had hoped this baby would be named.

Two years ago, I also walked. I grieved as I walked. Then, as now, it was winter, and I walked in the late afternoon, watching the sun bleed slowly into a darkening sky. Now, I walk in the morning. I embrace the fact that the sun has risen on a new day, and we, too, are newly created to experience this day. I walk before grief can take hold of me, and claim me for its own.

My friends express shock Some of my friends register shock and surprise that I am out walking, but isolation has its price. It carves a space for depression, and I can’t afford to allow such darkness to once again set up housekeeping in my soul.

I speak as if we have a choice, I know. There are those who would argue that depression is merely a disease, a bio-chemical or hormonal imbalance whose severity we can’t control. I believe otherwise. We always have a choice to embrace health, even when that choice requires medication or therapy.

For me, movement is its own form of therapy. It is both an action and a metaphor. If I am moving, there must be a destination. The destination, I believe, is acceptance.

Sometimes the Hand of G‑d leaves an imprint on our lives in incomprehensible ways. At these moments, it is necessary to be humble. It is necessary to recognize that others have also suffered, and that none of us have a monopoly on pain.

I place one foot in front of the other, and I walk forward into an uncertain future that contains moments of both pleasure and pain. This act takes courage. It takes courage to smile, to parent my children, to leave the house and face a world that continues to function in complete oblivion to my pain.

Sometimes, I turn a corner to find that my grief has arrived at this milestone first, and has been waiting for me to arrive. Has it really been a month already since the miscarriage? How could I have allowed this time to pass? How could I allow life to continue when my baby has died? Again I find myself in the comforting arms of grief, and I rest here for a while- a few hours, or a day, devoted to tears.

Yet after this time, I turn once again to walk on. I cannot outwalk my grief. Rather, by the very act of walking, I can testify that I intend to go on.