Navigating the Nuance

Like most things in life, today is a complicated day full of dark, light, and all of the nuanced gray…

The lightness comes from the constant presence of the incredible mother I have been so blessed to call mine—a woman who has instilled in me the importance of kindness, grace, empathy, forgiveness, and strength. I celebrate her today and all days.

The darkness comes from the sporadic reminders of loss and the aching absence of my own child—thoughts of how differently my life would look now had things gone another way and anxious uncertainty for the future. I grieve the child that never was and the child that may never be.

But again, as in life, I am learning that those things—the light and the dark…the good and the bad…the celebration and the grief—not only can coexist but MUST. I am also learning, gratefully yet unfortunately, that I am far from alone in this experience.

So those who are being celebrated today, I salute you.

To those who are struggling today, I see you.

And to those who are trying to navigate the nuance of the in between, I stand with you. 🤍 

All I Wanted for Christmas Was You

Since the dawn of its creation, music has always had an incredible way of evoking our deepest emotions. As someone who is an extreme empath and an owner of #allthefeelings, I have always found empowerment, connection, and solace in music. When I was younger and my level of angst was unable to be expressed through my own limited vocabulary, I turned to the songs of the emo-est of bands (picture teenaged Lisa scream-singing MCR and Yellowcard whilst scribbling madly in her diary—bless her). When I went through a horrific breakup, I sought refuge in the melancholy lyrics of the sappiest singer-songwriters (shout-out to Jack Johnson and T-Swift). And when I need a serious mood boost (or a dance party of one), I immediately crank up the show tunes or some '90s-'00s hip hop (if you've seen my curated playlists, you get it).

But have you ever had a moment in your life—a new milestone, a big move, a messy breakup—that caused a song that you had heard a thousand times before and mindlessly sang along to all of a sudden truly resonate or take on a whole new meaning?

A few days ago I was on my way to the gym and in an effort to get myself pumped up and excited about working out at 6:30 AM (which is truly a monumental effort) I queued up my favorite Christmas playlist. Because I love all things Christmas and am no fool, “All I Want for Christmas is You” was the first song up. I was singing and bee-bopping along per usual until I was about a minute in and then something shifted. I started honing in on the words, unintentionally at first, and it was like I was suddenly hearing them for the first time. And then I felt that all too familiar feeling...a meltdown was coming. And boy did it. I finally parked the car and sat there in the gym parking lot, letting the feeling wash over me like a catastrophic tidal wave.

“Every month I have quietly prayed and hoped that this month would be the month it would all change...and every month I have silently wept and cursed when it was made clear that it wouldn’t.”

I’m sure by this point you’re probably thinking, “How could (arguably) the greatest Christmas song ever sung by one of the most iconic voices of our generation cause you to lose it like that?” And that's a completely valid question. I know the intended meaning of the song is wanting to be with the one you love for Christmas so desperately and not needing anything else but that. And on a very deep level—deeper than I even realized—that’s exactly what I was (well, am) feeling. But it’s not a significant other I’m longing for. The thing is...I have just begun my twelfth month of 2020 still not being pregnant.

By now most of you are aware of my experience last year, but I haven’t really spoken about it again until now. I honestly don’t like to, or frankly want to, talk about it—not because I’m ashamed or feel it shouldn’t be a topic that is openly discussed (it should!) but because it makes it that much more real for me. Before my miscarriage last year and even until recently when the subject of if we were ever having kids came up, I would say, “Ehh...if it happens, it happens” in the most nonchalant tone I could muster. That has been my chosen response because saying what I really feel hurts too much. In my mind admitting out loud that we have been trying (and trying...) and knowing that it isn’t happening makes each passing month feel like one giant failure after another. That my body is failing me. That I’m failing us. Every month I have quietly prayed and hoped that this month would be the month it would all change...and every month I have silently wept and cursed when it was made clear that it wouldn’t.

“In true Enneagram 9 fashion, I have always struggled with moving outside of my comfort zone and taking risks. Not for fear of judgment or of being vulnerable, but of failure.”

And until my therapy session this week (can I say, “Thank god for therapy!” enough?), I don’t think I realized just how important this is to me. I believe that a part of me has tried to convince myself that it doesn’t really matter if I ever have kids as some sort of a defense mechanism because admitting how desperately I want to be a mother would somehow make the pain and reality of it not happening that much deeper and truly unbearable. This has been a constant theme in my life—doing everything in my power to not get my hopes up over something for fear of the (in my mind, inevitable) let down. In true Enneagram 9 fashion, I have always struggled with moving outside of my comfort zone and taking risks. Not for fear of judgment or of being vulnerable, but of failure. And this just feels like an extension of that.

And here we find ourselves, at the end of what has undoubtedly been the most dumpster-fiery year in recorded history chock-full of immense tragedy and shared trauma. This holiday season will look and feel so different for almost all of us. I know for me that this time last year I was almost certain that we would be celebrating our best year yet and our first Christmas as a (human) family of three. But like most things in 2020 that, too, was tossed into the dumpster fire. And although seeing others getting to live out that experience—precious family holiday cards, cute kiddos unwrapping their gifts, festive pregnancy announcements—will undoubtedly cause a pang of envy in my heart, I also know that there is no shortage of love and joy in my life. I have the most phenomenal partner in my husband, an incredible support system in my friends and family, and (IMO) the world’s greatest therapist—and I am so ridiculously lucky. And grateful. Because I know there are so many others who are having to navigate a similar journey that may not have some or any of those same resources. But moreover, I am hopeful.

I hope if we have learned anything from this godforsaken year, it is the importance of human connectivity, the need for more empathy, and how truly resilient we are as people—individually and collectively. I hope this year has forced us to understand what’s really important in this life—not beautifully wrapped boxes under a tree but our relationships with those we love most. I hope that even though we are all going through shared and personal struggles, we can find a moment or two to appreciate what we do have—not just focus on what we didn’t get. I hope that for myself...and I hope it for you. So Happy End of 2020, friends! We may not have gotten all that we wanted, but we made it here. And that is truly a gift in and of itself.

What I Knew And What I Know

I've heard women say so many times, "I knew...I just knew!"...and I remember thinking, "How do you just know?" Well, one day in mid-September I finally understood what they meant: I just knew I was pregnant.

After a week of feeling all of the feelings—excitement, anxiety, fear, hope—I finally took a test... "PREGNANT". Those same feelings instantly amplified and washed over me like a terrifyingly glorious wave. This was real...this was happening...I was actually going to be a mom! It was a high I was sure I would never come down from, nor did I ever want to. But what I didn't know is just how quickly that high would end...

A few days (and several more positive tests) later, I started experiencing some minor pain. I had read that was normal and tried to focus on how I was going to surprise Alex with the news. Our six year wedding anniversary would be that Saturday, and I thought what better way to celebrate than with this incredible news! But a few days before, the pain started to intensify, as well as the bleeding, and it became almost unbearable. I called my doctor and made an appointment to have some blood work done, but I knew...I just knew...

I have experienced the loss of loved ones and dear relationships...I have suffered heartbreak and tragedy...but nothing—none of it—could have prepared me for the level of pain I felt in that moment. I cried til my eyes were swollen shut...I screamed til my throat was raw...I cursed and threw things and prayed and laid in the fetal position in the floor of my bathroom. I was gutted. I was angry. I was devastated.

“It's an odd dichotomy…feeling as though you—or your body—has failed, while also feeling like something has been stolen from you.”

See, what many people don't know about me is that since I was a young teenager, I have always held this (seemingly irrational) fear that I would never be able to have children. No doctor had told me such—it was just some dark notion that has lingered in the back of my mind for nearly 20 years. And for a little while, those dark dreams had been dashed, and I had proven my anxiety to be wrong. So when it was confirmed that I had in fact miscarried, those dark dreams had now turned into my worst—and very real—nightmare.

I still have a hard time even saying the word: "miscarriage." If you look it up in the dictionary, one of the first synonyms you will find is "failure," and that really resonates with me. It's an odd dichotomy...feeling as though you—or your body—has failed, while also feeling like something has been stolen from you. I feel guilty, yet victimized. I feel self-reproach, yet self-pity. I feel "why not me?", yet "why me?!"

“It's a club that no one wants to join, yet there are so, so many members.”

The first few weeks I went through (what I dubbed) the Triple D Cycle: 1) Depression; 2) Denial; 3) Distraction. Repeat. I've tried my best to keep busy and put on a brave face, but I've also allowed myself to have moments where I feel those hard feelings fully and deeply. The goal is to not suppress those emotions, but also to not become consumed by them. And a month later, I'm still struggling with finding that balance.

One out of every four pregnancies ends in a miscarriage. That is a truly devastating statistic. I have dear friends who have suffered miscarriages and fertility issues, and my heart broke for them. And now being on this side of it, the heaviness somehow feels even heavier. Because 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. It's a club that no one wants to join, yet there are so, so many members. But I am fortunate in the sense that my friends have been very open with me about their pain and struggles, which has allowed me to be more open and honest about my own experience—and therapy...thank god for therapy.

But keeping with that honesty, I initially didn't want to tell anyone (with the exception of my husband, of course). I mean...how do you casually bring that up in conversation? Why tell people who care about you something that will just make them sad and pity you? Why burden others with your sadness or pain if you don't have to? But then I felt that sadness begin to turn into anger... You see, the world doesn't just stop, even if it feels like it's crashing down on you. I still had projects to complete...laundry to do...relationships to maintain...emails to respond to...meetings to attend... There were days where I sat at my computer and literally screamed at the (obviously unknowing) person on the other side, "Do you have any idea what I'm going through right now?!" And of course, the answer was no.

“...I understand that your gain does not equal my loss...”

That's when I knew I had to write about it. Not for sympathy or pity or to make excuses for being emotionally/physically checked out—but for understanding. I also wanted to write about it, because as an advocate for removing the stigma surrounding mental health and related topics, to not share my personal experience would be hypocritical in my eyes and only perpetuate the stigma. And as I said, I am so lucky to have friends who have shared their experiences with me, as well as an amazing therapist...and I understand everyone is not as fortunate to have both or either of those things. So if my story can help one person out there feel less alone, then it's worth the temporary pain and vulnerability that comes with writing this blog.

To all my mama friends out there—please do not feel like you have to tiptoe around me or handle me with kit gloves. Keep sharing your funny stories and cute pictures of your kiddos. To all my pregnant gal pals—please do not feel like you have to avoid me. Keep posting those baby announcements, ultrasound pictures, bump updates, etc. Will they make me a little sad? Honestly, they most likely will. BUT...please know that I understand that your gain does not equal my loss and that I am genuinely and sincerely happy for you. And to all my ladies who have experienced or are currently experiencing the loss of a pregnancy—please do not feel like you have to bear this burden on your own. Let your family, friends, loved ones help you carry some of the weight. Lean on them, talk to them, confide in them. And if you feel like you can't, then please come lean on me. I will sit with you, cry with you, scream with you, or just quietly hold your hand. Your feelings—whatever they may be—are yours and yours alone, and you are justified in all of them...just don't feel like you have to feel them alone.

I've learned by now that you can't put a time limit, or any parameters, on grief—it ebbs and flows like the tide, with some days giving you space and the appearance of "normal" while others leave you feeling like a tsunami is crashing over you. I still have good days and bad days...moments of complete peace and moments of absolute meltdowns. But along with support, my friends' stories have also given me hope, as many of them now have beautiful, precious rainbow babies that I, too, have the privilege to love on. So it may not be today...tomorrow...or even months from now, but I am confident that I will get through this...that I will be okay...and that one day I will be granted the blessing of being a mother.

I know it...I just know it.