The Little Lotus Project Returns

 

December of 2022 was the last time I actually published a blog post. I have several drafts, but I couldn't find the wording. In 2019, we closed a big chapter in our lives - deciding there was no possible way we would have a child together. I know it was the right choice. Since 2019's excision surgery for endometriosis where the implanted an IUD, I have not had to have another surgery. Prior to that, within a five year span I had five surgeries.

After that, I felt like I had nothing new to say, so why bother?

Last year, I wanted to "revamp" The Little Lotus Project and change the name to "Redefining Our Rainbow". A rainbow baby (if you haven't heard this term) is a baby born after loss. Seeing rainbow baby stories gives me mixed emotions. On one hand, I am so grateful another couple did not have the same outcome we did. On the other...there is our outcome, which was nothing but a mountain of medical debt. We decided our "rainbow" could still happen. We just need to find ways to create our own rainbow.

This year, I keep getting signs that it is time to bring back the blog, but with a different twist. I want to share our "signs" because they are pretty cool (at least in my opinion)

In March, Branson and I visited Union Station in St. Louis. It fell on March 17th...and it was the 9th anniversary of our first failed IVF cycle. I have not been to Union Station in a very long time. But, they have a water / fire feature that includes lotus flowers. I don't remember the last time I saw a lotus that wasn't a picture or tattoo. The thing is, we weren't supposed to be at Union Station. Our tradition is to go to Red Lobster because that's where we went March 17th nine years ago to "regroup". But they had a long wait, and we had limited time. 

 

 

For our 11th Anniversary, we headed back to STL. We went to the Aquarium and the Zoo. At the Zoo, there were once again lotus flowers. Again, to me a "sign" that this blog needed revived and there's still conversation to be had about infertility.

 

We never truly rose from the murk and mud of infertility and IVF loss. Maybe one day we will, albeit we may be a little damaged still. 

 

In July, we went to my hometown. It was a wonderful weekend away. On our way back, it was raining a little and we saw a rainbow. At one point, we could see both sides of the rainbow. It brought me some peace and made me rethink my decision to stop this blog.

I started this blog so others would not feel so alone in their journey with infertility. I wanted to educate, advocate, and help others struggling with the same journey feel less alone. But the murk is more than just infertility. There are so many things we all endure that try our emotional, physical, and spiritual capacity.

So here is my new mission: to share stories and struggles that few people want to talk about because it is still "taboo", like certain mental health issues. The mission is to continue to help people feel less alone and  share what worked for me in hopes of providing a blueprint or "sparking" something in others that helps them heal.

I already have several posts in mind and I am excited to finally be back to blogging. I know it is a bigger trend to post quick videos, but I write too much or talk too much on each subject I tackle for that to work. Plus, I love to write.

Thank you to everyone who has supported our journey and who continue to support and encourage us to keep moving forward. We love you.

Unresolved Infertility: "Healing" and the Holidays

(Photo taken by Michelle Reed of MishReed Photography)

I have remained pretty quiet lately. I wish I could say it is because I no longer think about our IVF loss and infertility daily. That is not the reason for my silence. Unfortunately, the reason is my constant fear of dismissal of my feelings and grief the farther away our failed cycles fall on our life timeline. The fact is, I have been openly criticized for still carrying the losses so heavily, so being vulnerable has been difficult.

If I am being honest, I also become frustrated with myself that I have not progressed further. This caused me to really, really think about why that may be. It also resulted in me wondering how others could be so assured about where I should be emotionally, especially on anniversaries of cycle losses or around big events like holidays, birthday parties, and baby showers. After a lot of contemplation, I finally had an epiphany.

This is so hard to overcome because we never overcame infertility. Infertility and endometriosis had the last word. I never got to experience the pregnancy or first-time motherhood milestones I dreamed about. I never saw a positive pregnancy test. I never got to see the look of excitement on my husband's face when I told him we would finally be having a baby. I never got to see an ultrasound photo. I never got to surprise my family with the news they would be a sister, grandparents, aunts, or uncles. I never got to hold my infant with my little family by my side. I never got to see "baby's first" anything. And, I never will.

Although I know my worth - and no one's worth - is contingent on the ability to have children, this reality still sucks. A lot. Every holiday is a reminder of those moments I will never get to experience. Every birthday party is a reminder of those birthday parties I will never get to plan for my own child. Every baby shower is a reminder of something I will never get to experience. And as much as I want those feelings to go away, as many therapy sessions doing EMDR as I have done, as much as I continue to process as my brain will allow, I think there is something to be said about the fact that our infertility journey has this word attached to it: unresolved.

This is not at all to diminish the feelings of other warriors who have gone on to have children. Infertility on all fronts is hard and even with "resolved" (I say that loosely...I don't think you ever truly resolve this) infertility. But, I think I also don't post as much as I think because I don't ever want to make women who have had babies at some point during their infertility journeys to feel "survivor's guilt". At the same time, remaining quiet does not do the community of women like me any favors. We exist. And it is lonely.

As Christmas approaches, this is your friendly reminder that it is never okay to ask a couple when they are going to have kids. This is your friendly reminder to please not judge those who may feel down during the holidays because of infertility. This is your friendly reminder that it is never our place to put a timeline one someone else's grief, no matter what that grief may be about.

Before you leave thinking I am just doom and gloom, I will say this...it DOES get "easier". The grief hits me less frequently than in years past, even if the intensity of that grief feels the same as it did year one. The time it takes to recover from those episodes of grief gets shorter. Or, at least it has for me. It is still a work in progress and I know I still have work I need to do in therapy, but brains only allow us to process so much before shutting down as a coping mechanism. I feel optimistic that despite the unresolved nature of my infertility, I will continue to have less "bad" days and more "good" days. I am grateful for each day I do not spend at a level six-to-seven pain because my endometriosis kept coming back so quickly. I know I made the right choice, but it does not make stomaching that decision any easier. I was forced to choose between my health and my dream of having children, and that is not a great feeling. It is definitely compounded by the fact that at one point, my infertility was maliciously thrown in my face. 

To my fellow warriors, this is my gentle reminder to you that you can feel more than one feeling and it be completely valid. You can feel excited and happy for the children you have while also grieving those you lost. You can feel happy for another couple for their exciting news while also feeling sad for yourself. You can appreciate the things you do have in life that others do not have while also feeling disappointment for what you do not have. There is space for all of those feelings and I am a firm believer that we would all be more emotionally healthy if we just accepted that our emotions are complicated and that nothing is black-and-white. If you have known me for even a couple of years, you probably know how huge it is that I am able to get out of a black-and-white-thinking pattern.

No matter where you are on your journey...and no matter what feelings may creep up on you...I want you to know this above all things: your feelings are valid and you are seen. My hope is that even if you are experiencing a high level of grief, you can still find some brightness in this holiday season, even if it is just in the smallest of ways.

Happy holidays, friends. And remember...no matter what, YOU are enough.

An Open Letter to My Fellow Warriors

I started this draft on 8/5/2017 and I never finished it. When I first went to write, this is all I had:

Dear Invisible Illness Sisters,

You may or may not know me personally.  But can we be completely honest?  It doesn't matter if we have met or not.  Because we already know each other.

We already understand the pain of our invisible illness.  And, because of that, together we are sisters.  

As I sit here on a Monday evening, I find my body and spirit exhausted but my mind wide awake. That is usually a sign for me that something is on my mind that I need to get off of my mind before I can rest. So, I logged on and began sifting through drafts. I noticed a theme, so clearly at the time I did not have the courage to write what I am ready to write.

I guess I now require a second preface to this post. My posts come from many different places: awareness and facts, how to help support loved ones, how I am currently feeling, encouraging hope, acknowledging feelings...

Sometimes those feelings are all. Negative. With those, I still try to put some sort of positive spin. The theme I noticed about the unpublished posts? They were all out of a place of raw anger and confusion with zero resolve and zero sunshine and rainbows.

So, here it is. Unfiltered. Completely my thoughts. Some you may find you relate to. Others you'll notice are very specific to my story and case. I hope that even despite the lack of sunny demeanor, you can relate and feel less alone for at least one moment. Without further ado, here is the entire letter to you.

Dear Invisible Illness Sisters,

You may or may not know me personally.  But can we be completely honest?  It doesn't matter if we have met or not.  Because we already know each other.

We already understand the pain of our invisible illness.  And, because of that, together we are sisters.

I wish today I were writing you out of a place of hope and encouragement that everything is going to be okay. That reassurance and positivity is so important throughout this process. But can I be honest with you? Sometimes, that is JUST. NOT. POSSIBLE. I wish it were, and maybe it is for some people. And I am so happy for those who it is possible for. 

But as someone who never got to live out my dream of having my own sweet baby, I know the stark reality of never realizing a dream you wanted so badly it physically hurts you. It physically hurts all the way from your heart. You feel it tightening your throat as your eyes begin to sting, all while feeling like your heart is being ripped to shreds inside your chest. Blinding anger but sheer defeat leaves you feeling both ready to fight and ready to just collapse onto the floor.

On my darkest days, I wonder...

What did I do wrong?

What did I do to deserve this?

What could I have done differently?

On my darkest days, I think to myself...

This is all my fault.

I am being punished.

I deserve this.

I did not do enough.

On my darkest days I tell myself...

It is probably best you did not have a baby because you have health issues and those health issues would be all your fault.

It is probably best you did not have a baby because there are challenges you would have faced with having a baby.

You have no biological connection to anyone you know and you never will...and shame on you for thinking biology means everything, even though you know that is not true.

You did not deserve a baby because you were not good enough.

This is your fault because you have endometriosis.

This is your fault because you did not listen to your gut instincts.

Friends, I know those statements are not true. Logically. But in the darkness, each of those feelings feels so real. It feels as real as those dreams I had for my sweet angels. It feels as heart-wrenching as those calls I got telling me we had nothing to transfer. I feel nothing but darkness and sorrow for what could have been. I feel nothing but contempt for myself because I feel like it is all my fault. After all, there is no such thing as coincidence, right? Or what do I know. I could not even have kids.

These places of darkness are so, so real. And they are lonely. And scary. So my plea to you tonight, my friends and fellow warriors is to please have someone you feel you can trust. Have someone you can be as brutally honest with as I was with you. I am also here. You can email me or message me on our Facebook page.

The darkness does lift. And the deeper into the darkness we are, the longer finding the light will take. But, the light will come, albeit dim. But even some light is better than none at all.

Love,

Your Infertility Sister

 

Ocean Waves, Grief, and Faith

 

This summer, we enjoyed a family vacation in South Carolina. If you have ever visited a South Carolina beach, you are likely aware of how powerful the waves can become.

This was a beach we visited one morning to collect shark teeth washed ashore. Although I do not remember all of the thoughts running through my head as I walked along this stretch of the coast, I do remember being deep in thought about the symbolism of the rocks, the waves, and my experience with grief. At the time, I did not write anything down because I wanted to be present in the moment.

I regret not grabbing pictures of the tide as it began its retreat away from the rocks. This picture does not do justice to what I witnessed. At one point, the tide was so high and the waves were so powerful that they splashed over the rocks. I was mesmerized by the sheer power and beauty that was before me. 

Recently, I have noticed a familiar sadness creeping back in, much like the tide comes in. With tides, you know it is on its way, but it does not happen suddenly. Instead, if you look away for ten or so minutes, when you turn back around, you realize it is in fact heading your way. It started with a few tears one morning and two days later, nothing could prevent feeling completely overwhelmed with grief and sadness just as powerful and crushing as the days I received phone calls telling me our IVF cycle did not work. It is strange because although I knew a tide of sorts would be coming in, I was not prepared for how strong the waves would be.

For the first time in awhile, I found myself asking God why. I asked God why me, why us, why not even one baby when He has given other couples multiple babies. As I sat in the passenger seat, sobbing to the point where my whole body shook, I managed to utter a few coherent sentences in an attempt to share with my husband exactly where my thoughts were taking me.

Although I was asking God why, I was not actually asking it because I wanted or needed an answer to the question. Even though my entire heart ached to the point I felt like I would never feel anything but pain again, I was not angry with Him for not answering our prayers. In the moment, I was upset because I did not - and do not - fully understand why this is the path God has laid out in front of me. Even through the pain, I was able to hold onto my relatively newfound truth that I do not need to know why, I need to keep an open heart and spirit and wait for God to show me the "what next". 

When I feel this level of heartbreak, I usually find myself wanting to fall asleep and just not wake up. I do not want to die, but I also do not want to live another moment feeling crushed beneath what seems like unrelenting waves of grief crashing into every fiber of my being. I sometimes share when I feel this way, but I do not always do so because of how dark it is and because I do not want people to worry about me. I told my husband that although I wished I would fall asleep and not wake up, I knew that if the next day I woke up that God still has a purpose for me. In that moment, I was more frustrated about still not fully knowing what my purpose is instead of being frustrated about not knowing why I was unable to conceive a child.

Grief and pain are like the waves I saw crashing against the shore and the rocks this summer. Neither can be stopped. But, both will eventually diminish slowly. Both will return eventually. In the past, I would not have thought of myself as one of those big rocks on the shore. In the past, I felt like a stone or a shell that gets thrown into the larger rocks, only to be pulled back out into the ocean by the waves. In the past, the return of the emotional turmoil would have pulled me back into a place where I retreated to wherever the grief decided to take me.

As I stood on the beach that day - and as I look at the picture now - I realize I am much more like those rocks than a stone. The grief still hits me in a powerful way, and it likely always will. And while those crashes of grief may chip away at me a little, I feel like I am able to remain steadfast in the knowledge that I am not defined by the titles or accomplishments I lack. I am not lesser because I do not have the title of mom. I am not lesser because a medical procedure failed. I am not lesser because the sadness overtook me once again. I am a child of God above all else, and I was created in His image. It has taken me a very, very long time to believe this and to begin to place my trust in Him, and even now I still have days where I am fearful of allowing Him to take the lead. I still have days I am unhappy or frustrated with Him. I still have days where I question His intentions for my life.

I have avoided speaking out about my faith and my faith journey because I still very vividly remember how angry I was at God as we were struggling with infertility. I wanted nothing to do with Him, I lost my faith, I lost my way, and even though deep down I knew that the only way I would be able to truly and fully heal would be to seek Him, I resisted. I never want anyone to feel any sort of shame for being at a different or non-existent part of their faith journey. The last thing I wanted to hear was anything about God, especially if I was being told everything was part of God's plan and His timing. 

I am not going to tell you that your struggles are part of God's plan or that you are waiting because of His timing. I am not going to tell you He is testing your faith. Perhaps I am wrong, but I do not think that is how God works. I do not believe God wants us to be in pain.

I do believe that God does not want us to be alone. So tonight, or whenever you are reading this, know that you are not alone. I know it may feel like it, but if you are reading this, even if I do not know you, I see you. How you are feeling in this moment is valid. You are loved and you are cherished, and if in this moment you do not feel that way, I hope that if your heart is telling you otherwise, that there is a small voice in your head reminding you that this will pass. It may take a time, but healing from grief is an ongoing process. 

I am always horrible at wrapping these up, so I will end with sharing what helped me reach my turning point. If and when you are ready to talk to God again, try asking him "what next?" instead of "why?". An answer may not be given immediately to "what next", but at least when we ask "what next", we are looking forward instead of staying stuck in trying to find answers that may not serve us anyway.

I do not know what is next, but I know when I wake up tomorrow, it is another day for me to see if that answer is revealed.

Love,

Kristy

Adoption is Not a Cure for Infertility - Perspective from an Infertile Adoptee

I feel like this blog should start with a disclaimer.

This post is not intended to offend anyone. I am going to try my hardest to address this topic from multiple angles - because I find it to be extremely complex. The topic of adoption can drudge up a slew of feelings from adoptees, adoptive parents, and those battling infertility. It is my hope that I have given this post thought for enough time to write it in a way sheds sheds light on an important and sensitive topic.

For those who have struggled with fertility, chances are at some point, a well-meaning person has brought up adoption.

"Have you thought about adoption?"

"You could always adopt."

"There is more than one way to grow your family..."

And the worst... "Why don't you just adopt?"

Let's first get what should be the glaringly obvious out of the way. Anyone who has struggled with infertility has likely considered ALL the possible options... including adoption. During our infertility struggles, we discussed adoption on multiple occasions. Please trust me when I say that asking if we thought about adoption is not a question that needs asked. And imploring those struggling with fertility issues to adopt... well, that's not much better. ESPECIALLY if you ask why we don't "just" adopt.

Now, I would like to share a bit of my personal backstory to help put into perspective why I have the stance I do when it comes to the topic of adoption as it relates to infertility. I hope it will create the necessary frame needed to understand where I'm coming from.

I'm an adoptee. I was adopted from South Korea as an 11 month old. My adoption was private and closed. I know very little about my biological parents. What I do know is my adoptive parents (henceforth referred to as my parents, because that is who they are) are incredible parents and I have two wonderful sisters. I grew up in a stable and loving home and was given opportunities I never would have had growing up in Korea with a single mother in a country that favors boys.

My biological father left when I was very young, 10 years my biological mother's elder. At some point, my biological mother, now single and just 18 or 19 years old, felt she could not care for me. She wanted more for me.

The other thing I know is that no matter how great my childhood may have been, no amount of unconditional love could prevent the deep-seeded abandonment issues, deep-rooted loss of feeling of security, and a deeply desperate desire for answers.

My parents struggled with fertility issues. For that reason, they chose to look into adoption. And after loads of paperwork, background checks, and waiting (and waiting... and waiting...), the outcome was me coming from Korea to America in January 1987.

At this point, I'd like to pause and look at my particular adoption story. Did you notice something?

My parents suffered through miscarriages.

My biological mom lost her daughter.

I lost my biological parents.

That's three major losses suffered by four different individuals. And I'd put money on the fact that this is the case for the majority of adoption cases - the adoptive parent or parents, the biological parent(s), and the adopted child(ren) have all experienced loss.


So what am I trying to say? Part of what i'm trying to get across is that adoption isn't a case of adoptive parents rescuing some poor orphan. It is not NEARLY that simple. (Sidebar - for the love of Pete, please never say to an adoptive parent that their child is "lucky" to have them. That goes double for saying it in front of or to the child Absolutely nothing is "lucky" when it comes to adoption. Just... don't.) When you flippantly suggest someone adopt, you're failing to recognize the utter heartbreak that is involved.

Time to tie this back into the struggle of making the decision to adopt that those who are experiencing infertility.


When I read articles on topics like IVF, the comments that make me the MOST angry are the ones that say anyone struggle with infertility should adopt because there are so many children who need homes. Is the fact there are many children who need homes false? No. But does that make it the responsibility of those struggling to have biological children? Absolutely not.

There's this weird stigma that I have observed that I can't wrap my mind around. The idea that it's somehow selfish to want biological children. After all, remember all of those children who need adopted? It's as though parts of society shun the idea of reproductive therapy when there are children who need parents. Why bring more children into our already overpopulated world?

There is nothing wrong or selfish about wanting biological children. (Conversely, there's nothing wrong with not wanting children... but that topic alone could take up an entire blog post). It's a natural animal (yes, we are animals) instinct - to continue our bloodline. And if a couple has tried and tried and tried to bring a child into the world, it's hard-wired into our genes.

This next bit isn't really easy for me to write. There are very few people who I have verbally expressed this to, but I'm hoping my perspective will give well-meaning individuals something to consider before they suggest adoption.

I'm an infertile adoptee who has (after multiple discussions with my husband) decided that adoption is not for me. My personal story plays heavily into this decision. I know it seems backwards... as an adoptee, why wouldn't I want to turn around and do the same?

Because I have seen and experienced the realities of adoption first-hand. I remember what I put my parents through. I remember how hard I struggled with my identity and self-worth. As an adult, I'm still working through my identity, self-worth, abandonment issues, and attachment issues. I have come a long way, but it has taken multiple years and therapists to get me to where I am today.

After years of wanting nothing more than to be called "mom", I know that if we adopt, there's a chance I'll be told "you're not my real mom". There will be questions about the biological parents. Questions that are natural and valid. Questions that are inevitable. I know because I asked questions. No matter how good of a life we provide, the desire for answers and a sense of closure will always exist. I know myself. And I know that there is no way after the pain and loss from a more than 5 year period of time I can handle taking on those questions. Not only that, I am being honest with myself and recognize that these questions will not only hurt as a reminder that if I adopt, I still didn't get to experience pregnancy. I don't get to look down and see my eyes or nose combined with my husband's smile and hair. Wounds that have taken years to heal would be ripped open. It's just not for me.

That's MY reason. But, to be honest, no one owes others an explanation as to why they would choose not to adopt. To anyone struggling with infertility who has heard the adoption suggestion or question over and over again... you do NOT have to share your reason unless you WANT to. Whatever your reason may be, I know it has been a topic that has weighed heavily on your heart many times. I have been there. And for some time, I felt guilty about the fact that it's not for me.

For the sake of what may be your curiosity as to why a couple would choose not to adopt, let me share a few other potential explanations.

If someone has seen negative pregnancy test after negative pregnancy test, experienced miscarriage or child loss, and/or has had reproductive therapy fail - that person has already been through the emotional (and potentially financial) ringer. There was a dream. And that dream was shattered.

Adoption isn't a simple solution by any means. And for couples who have already suffered disappointment, going through the adoption process does not guarantee that the process will be smooth. There is no guarantee that it will result in immediate placement. The biological mother could always change her mind. Another member of the child's family may step in. Many cases require fostering before adoption. In those instances, multiple court dates are typically involved. For a couple that has already experienced waiting and waiting only to have the rug pulled out from under them again, the prospect of adopting can be terrifying.

And none of that takes into account the financial aspect of adoption, the home studies, Some couples don't have the financial resources to begin with. Others may have already tapped out their financials undergoing fertility treatment.

Please do not misunderstand me. I think adoption is an absolutely beautiful and wonderful way to grow a family. I have my family because of adoption. I know and love families that have grown through adoption. But, for all of us... I am aware of the heartbreak that is there. Adoption is NOT a cure for infertility.

Adoption is wonderful, but it is not for everyone. And there is nothing wrong with that. Those who think otherwise have probably not been through the trenches of infertility, and I can understand why. It's hard to grasp the full magnitude of something you haven't experienced.

If you know someone struggling with infertility... please stop bringing up adoption.

If it gets brought up will we disown you or yell? Probably not. Will we feel jolted and shaken and possibly burst into tears after we part ways? Probably. Will we gently correct you? Maybe. While it may be a legitimate question, it's not a very supportive question.

The next time you want to ask about adoption? Try asking how you can support that person instead. It will make a world of difference.

Love,

The Infertile Adoptee

A New Decade - Finding the Grace to Move Forward

 

I have had this post on my mind for some time now, but I struggled with getting my thoughts out in a way that wasn't just a jumbled collection of the many things that have tugged at my heartstrings for the past several months.

I began the year thinking I would blog more. Be inspiring. Be motivating. Help others. Unfortunately, that never happened. It wasn't for a lack of content or ideas. It wasn't due to lack of time. It wasn't due to lack of motivation. Looking back on it now as I face another new year, I realize what held me back was doubt, fear, and self-loathing I had allowed to build up over a period of time.

I went into 2019 wanting to radiate a positive example - to be the light in the dark for someone. How could I possibly do that if I was in such a dark place? I felt like I was just repeating myself. I figured it was best to just keep quiet and force myself through the day-to-day survival. I was ashamed of still feeling hurt, angry, confused, abandoned, and dismissed. I didn't want to admit that my faith in God was completely non-existent - I had come to a point where I had essentially written Him off and wasn't on "speaking terms" with Him. If I couldn't say anything positive, I didn't want to say anything at all.

I realize now that doing so was a mistake. That I had allowed my life to be controlled by lies I had convinced myself to be truth. 

Now, some of the beliefs I have developed about myself were a result of past traumas from which I never fully healed. Add to that the chronic pain, health issues, failed IVF cycles, and instances of being treated poorly as a result of my health issues - it's a great recipe for compounding those negative thought patterns. It allowed them to grow and flourish rapidly, like weeds. I found myself suffocating.

In the spirit of the new year, I think it's time to come clean and admit where I have been this past year. It's time to break my silence, be honest, and start healing without allowing shame to weigh me down.

My endometriosis came back and I was constantly in pain.

My husband's grandmother passed away.

My chronic pain got worse, to the point where I was back on strong pain medication and couldn't work.

My endometriosis and pain got so bad, I ended up in psychiatric care due to active suicidal thoughts because I just wanted the pain to stop.

My work life got interrupted because I was incapable of working full days without suffering flare-ups.

My work life became strained and uncomfortable as I found myself being treated differently being on medical leave and part-time disability.

My family life suffered because I couldn't do something as simple as go and watch a softball game or go to the zoo without suffering a flare-up.

My family life suffered because I couldn't stand car rides without suffering 3-4 day long flare-ups after trips.

My social life suffered because I couldn't commit to plans.

My grandmother passed away.

My work life got to a point where I was so uncomfortable with how I felt I was perceived I decided it was time to pursue a new career path.

My search for a doctor locally to treat my endometriosis left me feeling frustrated and angry that no one was listening to me.

My car was totaled on Halloween - a day we struggle with anyway because it was our second cycle loss - because it snowed and I lost control of my vehicle on a slick patch.

My fifth surgery in a five year period happened more than 5 hours away from home.

My amount of hospitalizations ended up being more than I care to try to count.

My desire to go to church and connect with God was completely gone.

Now, I don't say all of those things because I'm looking for sympathy. There are a couple of reasons I have chosen to share them now.

One - I know I'm not the only one who has had a tough year. In fact, I'm willing to bet there are many out there who have had a worse year. And I want those people to know that they're not alone. And, if you are like me and found yourself at the end of 2019 wondering where on earth the year went and why you "allowed" yourself to curl up in fetal position and stay there, that you're not the only one who did that. I don't like admitting that's what happened to my year, but it did. And I can choose to let that shame carry with me into the new decade, or I can reflect on what happened, pick myself back up, and give it another shot. If you spent last year in a similar fashion as me - hiding out because you were embarrassed or ashamed of how you felt about yourself and/or your faith and/or your life - I want you to know that it's ok. I think had I recognized the anguish I was feeling, my struggles, and my pain - not just within myself, but outwardly and honestly - the healing process could have happened quicker. And that's an important lesson, I think. Just because we cannot see the silver lining doesn't mean what we have to say, our thoughts, or our feelings are invalid. It means we are human. And sharing those stories might just be what someone else needs to hear.

Two - out of many of those struggles listed, something absolutely beautiful has bloomed.

Sure, there are things I lost. But there is so much more on the horizon as a result.

I learned even more the importance of advocating for myself. You are your own best advocate. Believe in that. And if you need help? Please let me know and I'll give you some tips and a pep talk. If you don't speak up, you won't be heard.

I have made new connections. I have found that as I am more open about my struggles with endometriosis and infertility, others are sharing with me their stories. When I totaled my car, I ended up being taken by ambulance due to neck pain as a precaution. I'm not sure why, but I shared with the EMT the story of my struggle with endometriosis and our infertility issues. I was met with that person's story of their family's struggles with the same issues.

I became stronger mentally by recognizing I don't deserve to be treated poorly because of something I cannot help. I didn't ask to have endometriosis. I didn't ask for it to come back. It's not my fault, nor is my infertility. I stepped back from situations where I felt there was a lack of understanding - and, in some cases, borderline bullying and abuse. I realized I didn't have control over my medical condition, but I had control over how I would allow myself to be treated.

I took a huge leap of faith when my grandmother passed away and decided it was time to go back to school and finally go into education. She was a third grade teacher for most of her life. Losing her was a wake up call for me. Life is too short to be doing jobs I'm not passionate about. Not just that, but it gave me the courage to finally embrace what I believe I have been called to do with my life.


Now - as for my faith. We started going back to church towards the end of 2019. I had to force myself into it. But, I'm so glad I did. Each message not only brought me closer to wanting to rebuild my relationship with Christ, but made me realize I was exactly where He wanted me to be. While I can't recount every sermon topic, I can recall that each time, I was moved because it felt like it was a message I needed to hear at that time.

Most recently, my husband and I came across a song called "Scars". (You can listen to it here). The gist of the song is being thankful for the hardships we have endured because they have made us stronger in our faith and convictions. Not only that, they shape us into stronger people.

With that, we can choose to stay silent, or we can choose to speak our truths and struggles into the world and share how we got through them. And while it's not always a nice, neat, tidy path, we got there.

The sermon that Sunday - just a day or two later - was on "The Old You - Leaving the Past Behind". And that sermon is what inspired me to finally write again. Not because I think the past is some taboo, awful thing. Not because I'm abandoning "old" Kristy. But, because despite what happened in 2019, 2020 is here. And I get to decide if I just cling on to the past hurt, insecurity, and shame I have carried with me - or if I leave it behind me. That's not to say we'll ever forget the hurt, or that the hurt won't resurface. I embrace those parts of my past - those parts of me - because I wouldn't be who I am today without those struggles.

I have heard of people choosing words to represent their year. My word is grace. I'm giving myself grace. Grace to hurt. Grace to heal. Grace to celebrate to despite the hurt. Grace to hurt despite the blessings. Grace to make mistakes. Grace to share what's on my heart and stop censoring myself. Grace to free myself from shame. Grace to move on.

My hope for you this year is that you will also give yourself that same grace. I know it can be a struggle. I know you might be in a place where this sounds completely foreign and you think I'm full of it. I've been there. Which is why I often refrained from speaking out about my faith journey - I didn't want to offend anyone. I didn't want to alienate someone who was hurting because they were or are angry at God. I didn't want to bring down those whose faith is strong. I didn't want to hurt those whose faith had been shattered. So here it is - no matter what I share with you this year, I hope you give yourself grace to allow yourself to feel how YOU feel about it, without feeling ashamed. Shame is such an ugly thing that weighs us down and it is SO hard to shake. But, if you need it - I'm here for you.

So here's to 2020. A year of finding the grace to continue to move forward. Grace to be exactly where we are, free from shame, self-doubt, and judgement.

For the past year, I have asked others for prayer because I couldn't bear praying myself. This year, I want to do the same for you. Please reach out to me if there are prayers I can lift up for you.

Love,

Kristy

An Letter to My Grandma... Living with Grief

Since saying goodbye to Facebook, I had wondered just how far the reach of my posts will really go. And while this blog started out as support for infertility, of all the posts I have written, I hope this one reaches the most people.

This one is dedicated to my Grandma Maag. Someone who I wish I could describe in words. It wasn't until I knew I would never see her again in my earthly body that I fully appreciated how much she meant to me... and how much I feel as though I have let her down.

I was the odd duck in my family - I moved away. But, my grandma would occasionally send me these notes - just to let me know she was thinking about me.

Over the years, I collected these notes and cards. I loved seeing my grandma's handwriting. I'm grateful I have a piece of that - a piece of her - to keep forever.

I kept telling myself I wanted to write grandma a note. But, I worried she wouldn't understand. I was afraid she wouldn't know who I was. I worried it would have been a nuisance. My deepest regret now that my grandma is gone is that I never sent that note.

So here it goes - something that has been on my heart and that has been challenged to me to write a note to someone in honor of my grandma. And that person I have chosen is the very woman who has inspired me in ways yet to be seen.

Dear Grandma,

I can't believe more than a week ago we got the call here in our home to let us know God had called you home. I could sense it coming for probably a month. I know you could sense it coming, too. I so wish I could have been by your side. I know people told me your body was there, but you weren't the same grandma I remember. But I wish I would have been there so you could have felt my love along with everyone else's. Grandma...I hope you know how fiercely you were loved by us.

I still feel in a daze. Moments after I found out you were gone, I started frantically searching for my memories I know I have of you. I was able to find a couple of notes. I found a watch from our boat trip in Iowa. I can't remember what color you got, but I know we both got watches that day. I found the wallet you bought me in Italy - with a single dollar bill in it on which you wrote, "Keep Me and You'll Never Be Broke.". I never fully appreciated the life lessons you were teaching me - not to mention your sense of humor.

I feel guilty that you never got to know the little very well. But, she knew you. And in one of the goofiest of ways. You remember that thing you did at restaurants with the napkin? The three different characters? I taught that to the little years ago. And she still does it. We all still do it. And it still makes us laugh.

As I write this, I wear the ring you gave to me. I couldn't wear it for awhile because I burned the bejeezus out of my finger, but it's back on, now. I remember when I got the note from  you while I was in college asking if I would like it as a graduation gift. I was siting in an office doing my work for the residence hall I worked for.

Remember when we went to Europe and I tried to sleep in the tub because of your snoring? I think this was probably pre-CPAP. But, I would give anything to hear your snores again.

Grandma...I know you were in so much pain. And I learned you were in so much more pain than I ever realized. My heart breaks... because my body also wants to just give up a lot of days and I know I have begged God to take me.

I wish I could have been to you on this earth what your notes and letters were to me. I wish I could have helped you more.

I have so many happy memories with you - and a lot of them are random, but they're some of my favorites. Like, eating Cracklin' Oat Bran at your house. I'm pretty sure that's crappy for our bodies, but I think I'm going to get a box and have some in your memory.

I remember when you out of the blue asked me to go on a very short trip with you - a bus trip that had a stop in Peoria, so I joined you there. I wondered if it was something I should do - taking time off of work was difficult for me. But I knew even then that this would be the last chance I had to do this with you. My last trip with my LOL.

I remember after church service one Sunday you asked me if I wanted to go see Aida at the Fox. Grandma - to this day, that is one of my favorite musicals. I even purchased the soundtrack.

Going to the Muny with you inspired me to want to sing and act. I wanted to be on stage one day. And one of the letters I found was you encouraging me to pursue it.

I feel like I'm a rambling mess. I have so much on my mind and in my heart. The biggest and heaviest of which is how much I miss you and how many incredible memories I have with you.

I'm forever proud to be your favorite Raven-haired grandchild. 

I love you, Grandma. 

Kristy

"There was a little old lady who lived in a little old house..."

I asked my grandma after one of our losses how she maintained her faith after everything she endured. Losing her husband. Battling breast cancer. Losing her son. I figured if anyone would have that answer, she would. I wish I could recite exactly what she said. All I know is I was left in awe that despite it all, my grandma was telling me to continue to have faith in Him and trust His plan. I don't know that I've ever talked about that moment I had with my grandma.

Loss is a terrible thing. It sucks. It hurts. It can be paralyzing. But, it can kick us in the right direction. So here is my challenge to you, as I think my grandma has challenged me for the time I was ready to trust in His plan.

Write the note.

Audition for the show.

Make the phone call.

Pursue your calling.

Give back to your community.

Have faith with it seems like faith is the furthest possible thing.

Love fiercely.

Go on the vacation.

Take the time to have the experiences you want.

Even if you just pick one of this list... I hope you do. And I hope you share your experience with others.

Love,

K