In the last hour of my drive, I listened to an episode of the podcast Becoming Wise. Writer Pico Iyer was interviewed, and in that  moment, his words felt as though they were meant only for me. "Anybody who travels knows that you're not really doing so in order to move around," he said, "you're traveling in order to be moved, and really what you're seeing is not just the Grand Canyon or the Great Wall, but some moods or intimations or places inside yourself that you never ordinarily see when you're sleepwalking through your daily life." 

My journey was never solely to see the great American West, to experience the Grand Canyon or Yosemite or the Grand Tetons. Even when I first conceived of the trip, I knew what I was seeking was something inside myself, something that had been buried deep, concealed by the weight of grief and sadness. As I listened to the interview, I wondered what it was that I had discovered about myself. I felt different - lighter, more present, filled with gratitude and a sense of peace. I couldn't articulate what I had learned, but I knew that something had evolved. 

Turning onto my own block, Magnolia Avenue looked almost exactly the same, with a few more leaves on the ground than three weeks prior. Only I had changed. Within seconds of walking through the front door, all four of my pets were happily greeting me, Ben not far behind.

We visited a nearby lake to take a walk that afternoon. I told stories and shared highlights of my journey, realizing that this was an experience I could never completely share. Leaves crunched beneath our feet, the smell of fall in the air. It was a fitting ending to my vision quest, the 6300 miles, 10 national parks, 11 states, visits with family and friends, and hours of contemplative quiet. A beautiful, peaceful stroll with my love.

Unbeknownst to us, an epilogue was in store.

After our walk, we got into the car to run a few errands. The clouds hadn't dropped more than a few light sprinkles, but they still hung overhead. I gazed out the window as Ben drove, settling into the warm feeling of home. And then I saw them.

Not one, but two faint rainbows in the sky.

To many in the pregnancy loss community, rainbows have a special meaning. A child born after a loss is a beautiful rainbow after the storm. Seeing a rainbow in the sky can feel like an omen, a sign that everything will be okay, that you will have your own rainbow some day. On this particular day, October 15th, babies lost to miscarriage and children born still were being honored all over the world by Pregnancy Loss Remembrance Day. On this day, these rainbows felt especially significant. Seeing them was nothing short of remarkable.

These were the first rainbows I had seen since our second loss. Soon, one had stretched across the sky, completing a perfect arch. It was the most beautiful way to end my vision quest. As I looked up at this full, glorious promise, I realized I was seeing a visual representation of my truth. I was breaking through the storm of loss, infertility, grief and depression, and had the promise of a future where these experiences would not consume my every thought. A future where I could be happy more often than sad, and feel grateful for what I have rather than be consumed by what is missing.

Only time will tell if our rainbow includes a child. Perhaps we will one day hold a beautiful, breathing, squirming, crying rainbow baby in our arms. Or perhaps that is not our future. What I do know, is that we will come through this storm, and there will be something beautiful on the other side. I saw a glimpse on my vision quest. A glimpse of what we can be grateful for, of the peace and beauty that is already here, if we can open our eyes to it.