About two years ago this summer, I had a miscarriage.

It’s a topic that many women don’t like to admit or talk about.

No matter how much progress we’ve made as a society, there are still implications that if a woman gets pregnant and loses her baby, it’s her fault.

About 15 to 20 percent of known pregnancies end in miscarriage (the loss of pregnancy before the 20th week), but according to the Mayo Clinic the number is likely much higher, with many occurring before a woman even knows she’s pregnant.

Nationally, conversations continue about whether women are to blame for their miscarriages.

A recent law passed in Utah holds women criminally liable for illegal abortions. Abortion rights advocates have said they worry it could criminalize a woman’s behavior during pregnancy.

Earlier versions of the law referred to the “reckless behavior” of a woman, and some feared that it could lead to a woman being persecuted for having a miscarriage, according to AOLnews.com.

In my case, doctors assured me I wasn’t to blame for my miscarriage. But after it happened, I made a mental list of things I did that could have caused it.

Perhaps it was the coffee I couldn’t give up.

Maybe it was the drink or two I had before I found out I was pregnant.

I even thought perhaps there was something strange and spiritual about it, and my husband and I just weren’t mature enough yet to handle a new baby. (But I realize now: Is anyone ever truly ready for parenthood?)

None of these things caused the miscarriage, but I thought them anyway.

My doctors assured me that it is simply a biological fluke. In a few words: It just happens.

During my second pregnancy—the one that resulted in my now nearly 5-month-old son, Gabe—I heard many messages about how anything I did could harm him.

A yoga teacher once told me I was selfish for continuing an upbeat fitness routine in my first trimester. She said that I needed to realign my priorities and make my life about my baby, not myself.

I heard concerns from people when they learned that I continued to pet and cuddle with my cats. (Doctors say a pregnant woman shouldn’t do litter box duties, but she can continue to enjoy her pets.)

Even so, I tried my best to relax and enjoy my second pregnancy and not spend the entire time worrying that I would suffer a loss again. 

My husband and I took long walks. We traveled. We spent time with friends.

I enjoyed a cup of coffee every morning. We even went to an Avett Brothers concert in Baltimore when I was eight months along.

But that doesn’t mean I wasn’t still haunted by what happened.

In the month before Gabe was born, I would sometimes wake up in the middle of the night with worries that something would go wrong with the birth.

I think I decided to have a natural birth partly so I could control the whole thing.

There is a picture in our family photo album of me looking up at my husband moments after the birth, which was long and painful—but in the end, very satisfying.

There were tears in my eyes.

They were tears of joy that I had finally made this happen and had met my first child.

And, yes, a small part of me was thinking of the son or daughter I didn’t get to meet.

And even though I am head over heels in love with my baby son, a little part of me probably always will think about that.