False Hope & Ambiguous Loss

Ambiguous loss is a loss that occurs without a significant likelihood of reaching emotional closure or a clear understanding. This kind of loss leaves a person searching for answers, and thus complicates and delays the process of grieving, and often results in unresolved grief.

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A miracle. That’s what it felt like in every sense of the word. After years of negative tests, a miscarriage, and three failed IUI’s, it finally happened…I WAS PREGNANT, and with no medical intervention. It was July 2022, and it finally felt like things were falling into place. But what I couldn’t have known then was that it was actually all about to come crashing down.

We hadn’t told anyone yet. When you’ve experienced pregnancy loss, you’re incredibly cautious about what and how much you share—even with close friends and family. Plus I wanted to plan some sort of special reveal for our people who have been on this journey with us since day one. So here I was on this fun trip with my sisters and mom—our first-ever girls trip with just the four of us—to see the Mean Girls musical tour in Atlanta, and it started…the bleeding. It was so minor that I convinced myself that it was normal (which it definitely is) and that everything was fine. I was fine. The baby was fine. But after 3 days of it getting worse and worse, I knew that feeling all too well—it was gone.

I tearfully called my OBGYN to cancel my 8-week appointment and began the grieving process yet again. But after a few weeks, the bleeding hadn’t stopped. After calling my OB twice (once after 3 weeks of bleeding and again after 4 weeks) to let them know what was going on and them suggesting (to my shock and, tbh, horror) that I make an appointment with my general practitioner, go to an urgent care/ER, or they could see me in late October (mind you, this is mid-August now) and me screaming at the receptionist, “I’ll be dead by then!”…I decided to reach out to my fertility clinic. And thank god I did…

They were able to get me in immediately and confirmed my greatest fear—the miscarriage had become an ectopic pregnancy. Living in literally the worst state to have a baby with an atrocious abortion ban and coming just off the heels of the overturning of Roe v. Wade, I was understandably terrified. This baby that I had dreamt of and prayed for and paid exorbitant amounts of money to bring to life was no longer viable, and it was killing me. Thankfully, my clinic is run by a team of absolute saints who were able to get me the medication and care I needed to get through this, and I fully understand the level of privilege it takes to say that. But it wasn’t an easy road. The medication I was given—a type of chemotherapy—wreaked havoc on my body, and I spent almost an entire month in a level of pain I cannot begin to describe. I had to cancel my birthday party, spent the majority of our much-anticipated vacation to Florida crying in the fetal position counting the seconds til I could take my next pain pill, and barely managed to make it through one of my best friend’s bachelorette trip that I had been looking forward to for months. Compounding the physical pain with the emotional pain was almost too much to bare. One night the pain had gotten so bad that I looked at my husband and calmly said, “I think you’re going to have to take me to the ER.” Then a few minutes later, I felt something move through the left side of my abdomen, a sharp pain, and then…nothing. The pain was gone, and the level of relief I felt at that moment was immeasurable. But in the back of my mind, logically, I knew that this wasn’t good. So the next day, to the clinic I went…bracing myself for more bad news…

At first there was so much distortion on my scan, the nurses couldn’t figure out what had actually happened. Was it my ovary? A fallopian tube? I would need more tests and scans to confirm what damage had been done. Fortunately, it was determined that it was likely a follicle that had ruptured, which wasn’t great, but it was certainly nowhere near the worst-case scenario…and for that I was grateful. My body would need time to heal, and it would take right at three months from the beginning of this fiasco for that to happen. And in the midst of the nightmare that had fully consumed me during these three months, the company that I had worked for for nine years terminated me. But that’s another story for another time…

Once the physical healing was complete, it was time to start the emotional restoration. And it was around this time that I started listening to a podcast called Race to 35 (shout-out to my #1, Kate, for the perfect recommendation) wherein one of the episodes they talk with psychotherapist Esther Perel about the notion of ambiguous loss. Although I had never heard of this term before, I had absolutely experienced it. It’s an odd thing to grieve something intangible—it’s like missing someone you’ve never met and will never meet. But I believe it’s like I’ve said before, you're not just grieving this lost embryo…you're mourning the nursery you had already decorated in your head, the joy on your parents' faces after telling them they're going to be grandparents, the life that will never be.

Even though listening to and participating in discussions surrounding this topic won’t alleviate all of the pain that’s been endured, it has been helpful to assign a name to the feelings I have been experiencing not just through this incident but throughout our entire fertility journey, because I fully believe that you cannot repair something until you identify and name it. And despite this major setback, I choose to remain hopeful. If you are also traversing this path that is infertility, please allow yourself the space and grace to feel all the hard, awful, and (at times) overwhelming feelings, but in the end…I hope you, too, choose hope. Because the only thing I know to be truer than this road being rocky and unpredictable and weathering is that in the end it will all be so, so worth it.

Growing Pains & Making Gains

They tell you when you hit your 30’s, something changes within you—you really start figuring things out, learning your true self, and a sense of self-acceptance begins to settle in. But here I find myself (rapidly) approaching the midpoint of this decade of my life, constantly checking my watch, waiting for this cosmic shift to take place and … *tick tock tick tock* … nothing.

The truth is…the past two years I’ve been struggling. The grief over the loss of my pregnancy and of my furry soulmate, the year-long anxiety of doing a TV show (that I still feel I had no business doing), the depression over our ongoing infertility struggle—not to mention the trauma from this goddamn global pandemic—all have taken a toll on me mentally, emotionally, spiritually…and physically. Now, I should preface this by saying that being thin has never really been a goal at any point in my life (which is good, because tbh it’s just not in the genetic cards for me). My weight and size have fluctuated since middle school, and I’ve just ridden that wave and accepted every version that my body has presented over the years. But lately…I’ve felt like a stranger in my own skin, finding it nearly impossible to recognize my reflection or feel good in anything I put on my body.

“So I checked my bullshit with the bouncer, got myself a drink, and hit the dance floor with my friends.”

So you can imagine when the idea was proposed that we go out clubbing one night while we were in Vegas recently, I immediately dove headfirst into my private pool of self-pity. But I poked my head up out of the water long enough to feign an excitable “OK, let’s do it!” and proceeded to painstakingly pick something (anything) to wear that I would feel remotely good in. When we arrived at the club, I was quickly made aware of the key demographic—it was impossible to not notice the abundance of 22-year-olds in their tiny, sparkly dresses, 6-inch heels, and Insta-Influencer-level faces. Did I look cute? Sure. Was I still a tad (read: super) self-conscious at this point? Definitely. But…I made the decision right then that I was going to let all that go and just enjoy myself. So I checked my bullshit with the bouncer, got myself a drink, and hit the dance floor with my friends. And then, something amazing happened…

“I remember the days of my earlier years where I constantly felt like I had something to prove—like I had to be the prettiest or funniest or smartest or some combination of those things in order to stand out in a crowd.”

All of a sudden I found myself dancing…and laughing…and having the time of my life. And then I started to look around at these young women that had initially triggered my own insecurities and began to almost feel sorry for them. I watched as they teetered around in those ridiculous heels, pulling at their dresses, fussing with their hair, eyes shifting from one woman to the next as if they were taking some kind of hot-girl-inventory and doing the impossible math in their heads to determine how they stacked up against them. I recognized it because I used to be them.

“…not only is life better when you let go of your insecurities and allow yourself to fully and shamelessly experience the joys life has to offer but also when you do that, other people can see it and feel it.”

I remember the days of my earlier years where I constantly felt like I had something to prove—like I had to be the prettiest or funniest or smartest or some combination of those things in order to stand out in a crowd. And in that moment—as I sweatily twerked to Megan Thee Stallion—I realized that none of that mattered. In fact, we had several people approach us wanting to dance with us and buy us drinks with one man literally saying, “You are giving off a vibe that none of these young gals could even touch” (which he later followed up with a highly inappropriate and awkward marriage proposal, but that’s neither here nor there). But this isn’t about throwing shade at all the 20-somethings of the world (y’all continue living your best young-folx’ lives!) nor is it about seeking validation from strange men in a club (although words of affirmation are my love language, ijs). That night didn’t necessarily affect how I felt about myself, rather it validated the idea that not only is life better when you let go of your insecurities and allow yourself to fully and shamelessly experience the joys life has to offer but also when you do that, other people can see it and feel it.

It was also that night I realized that sure, maybe I’ve recently gained (ahem) a few pounds, but in the past two years I’ve also gained: emotional stability through consistent therapy, a stronger marriage and closer relationships, my own business and a passion for what I do, a great deal of wisdom and several life lessons, and 10 whole inches of hair (I mean, I’m allowed at least one frivolous gain, right?). Not to mention a body that has carried me through all the trials and tribulations I mentioned earlier along with countless others. Can I say that I have “officially arrived”? I wouldn’t just yet. But…I can certainly feel the c o s m o s s h i f t i n g, inching me closer to the next best version of myself—a version who fully accepts herself as-is, who experiences joy unabashedly, and who can still drop it like it’s hot…in sensible shoes…and I can’t wait to meet her.