It was a long and dark winter. It was a season of tumultuous change, of painful similarity, and of great disappointment around every corner.
Spring now, though: I'm finally feeling a weight come off me - and whether I can attribute that to the days getting longer, the sun at last starting to warm things up, or the slow but steady letting-go that I'm working toward - I am grateful to be feeling the light that's both shining down on me and reigniting within me.
I recently had an article published in the Huffington Post - read it here - and wow... does it ever feel good to have my words out there in such a powerful way. I've also got another similar article on the way, being published by another fantastic outlet, and I cannot express remotely how that validation feels - how important and beautiful it is to approach such great organizations and communities of people, and say to them, "Hey. You know what's hard? Pregnancy loss. And infertility. Can we talk for a sec?" And to have them answer with a resounding "YES."
The articles I wrote both focus on the same thing - on the uphill battle I've been fighting over the loss of that wee child who should've been my second-born, and of the ensuing news that never again will I have the opportunity for a do-over - never a third pregnancy, never a second birth, never a sibling for my wild and wondrous growing girl. A family of three we will be, and while never will that sit right with me, my intent now is to push past the wreckage of it all, to slog through the mire of grief, and to let go.
As heart-wrenching as it is to accept defeat, to bury those last shreds of hope in the ground and to accept this new normal for what it is, it's a vital next-step along my way. It's a sloughing off of the idea that the present is wretched in order to consider that the beauty-filled now is here, and for the taking.
Because hope, for me, in this case, was a dark burden. Hope did not serve to show me what grace floated around me, or what solace there was to be found in what I've been given; it was, instead, an acid that seeped into every nook and cranny of my heart - one that ate away at me always, and especially over the last week of every month, right when blood would spill out of my body on all the days I'd mentally prepared to begin growing a new babe. Nineteen times I pencilled in a redeeming third pregnancy, and nineteen times I saw my hope, red on the toilet paper, and flushed it out of my sight.
I've let it go, and it feels glorious. These days swirling around me are good; fresh, and joy-filled. They're pointed in a different direction. They stand for more. They mean less. My moments are equal parts monotonous and glorious, unremarkable and exceptional all the same.
Fuck hope, dare I say. For where I am right now, it's a weight I've gladly tossed inside a duffel bag and thrown off a cliff. It's out of sight, and nearly - just nearly - out of mind.