And Adptee Poem / Song / Gibberish

 Trigger warning: adoption trauma.

I want to preface this with a few orders of business:

1. Yes, I am safe. These words came to me and I couldn't ge tthem out of my head so I wrote them down.

2. I consider my parents my parents. As in, my TECHNICALLY SPEAKING adoptive parents are and have always will be my parents. Mom, dad, mommy, daddy, moozie, daggles, etc. But in the context of this poem / these lyrics / whatever we are calling it at this point is in reference to TECHNICALLY SPEAKING my biological parents.

 3. I love my family and parents and this is not trying to diminish what they have done for me and the life I got to live because of them.

4. The purpose of this is to be really open and raw about what it can feel like to be an adoptee.

5. The inspiration for this was and is the fact that despite what I am told by  LITERALLY ANYONE, I find it fundamentally hard to believe I am a lovable person worth "hanging around" for when during such a formative time in my development, there was little to know stability.

 I oddly have a melody in my head, but right now all I really have is just a collection of words.

 Furthermore, I really hope this does the following: (1) resonate with fellow adoptees who are struggling (2) help people understand how damaging it is to flippantly tell someone to "just adopt".

 Healing is slow and it isn't always pretty. But, we have to start somewhere. For me, openly asking these questions to the universe is oddly cathartic.  

Daddy, why did you leave me?

Mommy, why couldn’t you stay?

I know I was too young to remember,

But my heart knew you both went away.

 

Alone and afraid, no reassurance

Strange faces come in and strangers go out

I don’t know how it’s true, but I still know it’s not you

Holding me here in your arms.

 

And in those moments, I died on the inside,

Steadfastly heartbroken and I didn’t even know.

 

So I question each day if I’m enough

Because in the beginning I didn’t know love.

I ask myself daily what else I can do

To prevent from losing more people like you

 

Daddy, what did I do wrong?

Mommy, what could I have done?

I know as a baby the answer is maybe

You were just a little too young.

 

I want to make sense of it

Untangle this web

But the aching inside my bones

Fills me with dread

I want to ask questions, but they multiply instead

Even if I hsd the answers, what difference does it make? It doesn’t lessen the soul that it takes

 

Daddy, why did you leave me?

Mommy, why couldn’t you stay?

It’s not going to matter how old I am,

I’ll still ask this every day.

K

Mother's Day and Mental Health with Unresolved Infertility

 

I remember living on Morison Avenue in my hometown prior to moving to where my parents now live. We had a neighbor with a paved driveway (I believe ours was gravel, but my memory is failing me) and I recall riding my bicycle, falling, and scraping me knee. It was your typical scrape, but it was bleeding and a fair amount of skin was exposed. This seems like an odd core memory, but I remember it because even though it burned and hurt a lot, I did not cry. That was the day I decided that I learned what it meant to be "tough" or "tough it out" and that anything less was unacceptable when it came to experiencing pain.

In that moment, I minimized the pain I was feeling and flat-out refused to acknowledge it hurt. From that moment on, that was my mantra. Sure, it hurt. But it could have hurt worse. I could have cried, but I was "strong" enough not to.

This mentality carried me through a lot. The confusion and hurt I felt as an adoptee? Meh. At least I got adopted. The physical pain I endured when I "became a woman"? Meh. It was normal. It hurts for everyone. It could be worse (even though the pain was so bad I would become physically ill and pre-load on over-the-counter pain meds to prepare). Failed IVF? Meh. It was not a miscarriage. It could always be worse, so what right did I or do I have to lament over these "trivial" events?

And therein lies the problem. For decades, I brushed things off because it "could be worse" or I was not "sick enough". Eating disorder? Meh. I was not underweight. Ever. Failed IVF? Meh. Other women had suffered much greater losses. Who am I to complain?

My mom used to tell me to not "stuff down" my feelings. I did that a lot because most of the time, I did not believe my feelings were valid OR I believed that somehow, whatever happened was MY fault.

In hindsight, I realize how infertility completely destroyed me as a person without me admitting that it had done just that.

Branson said the day our first cycle failed, he lost his wife. I hated that he said this, but he was not wrong.

I lost my spark.

I lived in a constant state of depression.

I gave up on myself.

I lost all hope and feigned hope.

I blamed myself constantly.

I hated myself.

I hated my body.

I felt like a failure.

I felt like my body failed me.

I lost faith in God.

I completely lost my identity.

I felt like I was being punished - and I deserved it.

I felt angry.

I felt sad.

I felt jealous.

I felt resentful.

I felt completely dead inside.

I blamed myself entirely and there are a lot of days I still do.

Every pregnancy announcement was a knife to the heart. Not because I was not happy for the expecting couple, but because once again...it was not me. I prayed I would see two lines. I would be a day or two late or experiencing pregnancy "symptoms". Within three to five days those hopes came to a crashing halt. Rinse. Repeat. Every month. For years.

Enter the doctors. Numbers looked good. Everything looked promising. Weeks of preparation and hope were instantly destroyed with one phone call.

I typically spend part of my blog post acknowledging that even "resolved" infertility destroys mental health. And it can and does. But this post is for my fellow warriors who ultimately lost their battle.

Those of us with empty arms. Every. Single. Mother's Day.

I never recovered because the ending of my story is final. I will never see a biological version of myself and my husband staring back at me. And as an adoptee with zero biological connection to anyone I know, this stings even more. Trust me when I say I am well aware biology is not everything. My family is my family. Period. No biological connection needed. But, when everyone else in my family has that but I do not? I feel like the odd one out.

I (stupidly) thought that after a decade, the pain would subside. Especially when I made the decision that this would be our fate because five surgeries in five years for Stage 4 Endometriosis was becoming not only ridiculously expensive, but increasingly painful and unmanageable.

This year was the most difficult year I have faced since our first year.

Maybe next Mother's Day.

Maybe next Christmas.

Maybe next Father's Day.

Maybe some random day.

Always a maybe. Never a yes.

Month after month.

Year after year.

After awhile, no matter how much you try to "fake it 'til you make it", those hopes just become empty words.

I try to remain positive. I try to tell myself that this was and is God's plan and that there is a bigger picture at play. Some days I believe this. Some days I do not.

The good news is, it does eventually get "easier". The bad news is...it takes a long time and it will never go away. A dream unfulfilled creates a hole in the heart and the spirit that nothing can ever fill.

By the way, being an infertile when your husband has a child from his first marriage is a special kind of (pardon my language) hell. Especially when it is thrown in your face. And especially when your true support system - those who actually step up and show true sympathy and cry alongside you - live three hours away.

It has taken me a decade to fully accept that what happened to us was traumatizing enough to warrant a major shift in my mental health.

I can think of ONE person I know who understands this pain. That creates an even deeper feeling of loneliness on an already lonely journey.

Infertility worsened my anxiety, my depression, my cPTSD, and my ED.

I cannot in good conscience just write a blog post that offers no hope or advice on how I am managing or trying to move forward. So let us talk about Mother's Day 2025.

There are times we really need to grieve. Sometimes we need to cry or scream and release the feelings that are there. Acknowledge them. Allow them to just be without judgement. Judgement creates more shame, and in my experience, shame is a feeling I am way too familiar with. And although the grief I felt this year was not just for myself, I spent Monday - Saturday leading up to Mother's Day in a deep state of grief, helplessness, and hopelessness. All while also feeling incredibly selfish for feeling this way when others I love dearly are suffering unimaginable battles. It occurs to me THAT is what prevents healing. By constantly having the mentality that someone else has it worse and we just have to "suck it up", "be strong", and pretend we are okay, we are NOT allowing ourselves to grieve our own losses properly.

On the morning of Mother's Day this year, I slept in, which is not saying much because when you are childless, that is a luxury you can afford. Had I not allowed myself to grieve all week, I do not think Mother's Day would have looked the way it did yesterday.

Sometimes, even on my dark days, there is a small part of me that recognizes that I have two choices: continue grieving because it is necessary for my healing process and preventing me from burning out OR take the small spark I have, push myself to do things that make me feel positive about myself, tell the cat and the dog they need to move, and get out of bed. There was a small spark in me on Sunday that decided that I had enough in me to TRY to turn things around. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it does not.

This time, it did. I got out of bed. I put on make up. I curled my hair. And I put on a dress I have not worn in nearly a decade (more on that in a bit).

I had told myself if our cycle failed, we would do something special. We never went on a honeymoon, so on a whim we went on a "Mini-Moon" over Memorial Day Weekend to Redington Beach. It was a time to escape the hurt and just enjoy each other's company away from all of the reminders of what we had lost. I dug out a dress I bought specifically for our trip and wore it on Sunday as a reminder of those days of reprieve.

I will leave the summary of our day at this: it was a much-needed reminder that at the end of the day, I am not broken. We are not broken. My value did not diminish because I could not have children even though that is what society and people in my life have tried to tell me. My husband does not see me and has never viewed me as a means to procreate. He loves me for me. And maybe one day, I will feel that love for myself.

In the meantime, I realize I have a lot of hard work and healing to do. Right now, I do not "fight" for myself. I fight for those I love and for those that love me. It is my hope that one day, I will rediscover my worth and begin healing for myself.

Here are some highlights from our adventure:

 

 

 

As I say this, I admittedly do not fully believe it, but it does not make the statement untrue just because I am not (or you are not) there yet. Your worth is not based on procreation. This did not happen to you because you are being punished. This did not happen to you because you lacked faith. This was a crappy hand you were dealt. Take the time to cry. To grieve. To heal in bits and pieces as you are able. Try not to put a timeline on grief. There is no "right" or "wrong" way to do so. And I want you to know that above all else, you are loved.

Redifining our Rainbow: National Infertility Awareness Week 2025

 

Hello! For those who are new to this blog, welcome! I know this isn't exactly a "club" anyone wants to be part of, but considering 1 in 8 couples will experience infertility, it's an important topic to continue having open, unfiltered conversations about.

Allow me to introduce (or re-introduce) myself. My name is Kristy. I started this blog and our Facebook page almost a decade ago as a way to communicate with family and friends (and even strangers) about our journey through infertility. The concept was inspired by someone who also fought the awful battle that is infertility. The thought (early on) was that one day, we would rise from the murk like the lotus does as we came out the other side of infertility with a successful pregnancy and baby in our arms.

Unfortunately, life had other plans for us. Six years of trying. Three IVF cycles. Two different clinics. Five surgeries and four surgeons for Stage 4 Endometriosis. Nothing to show for it but debt, broken hearts, broken spirits, and empty arms. No answers. No resolve. I really think the last two were the toughest to stomach, especially as someone who always wants to know the "why" behind something.

I stopped blogging after awhile because I really did not have anything "new" to say. Does it get easier over time? Yes. Does it take a long time? Also yes. There are a lot more days of being "okay" than not being "okay", but I would be lying if I said that some days hit just as hard as the day I got the phone call that our first cycle's only fertilized egg arrested (stopped growing) on Day 5, which was our transfer day. St. Patrick's Day 2015 to be exact. I blogged as an outlet for myself. I also didn't want others to feel as alone on their journey as I did. Even knowing there were people out there who knew what it was like, the idea of "burdening" others with the same stories and tears became overwhelming. I figured people were sick of hearing it and that it was time to "move on".

But the fact is, you never just "move on". Even those who manage to have their "rainbow baby" (or babies) never get to fully "move on". The hurt is still there. The scars remain. The fear remains. I imagine all parents are fiercely protective over their children. Parents with miracle babies I feel carry an entirely different level of fear after the trauma they endured.

So, for awhile I have felt "stuck" and only post every once in awhile when something is on my heart. This is what has been on my heart for almost two years.

Since the failed cycles, I lost pretty much all confidence in myself. As a high-achiever and person with pretty strong perfectionist tendencies, I blamed myself and my body for "failing" me. If I couldn't even manage to do something I as a woman am "supposed" to be able to do, how could I possibly succeed at anything else? It was as though life came to a complete standstill as I stood frozen and afraid to even approach my school work due to my intense fear of doing it "wrong" and "failing" yet again. I couldn't handle any more "failure". When something can't be explained, the easiest thing to do is often to blame yourself - even if it is NOT your fault - because having SOMETHING to blame it on makes it more "tolerable" in some sick and twisted way.

The fact of the matter is...in 2019, after the endometriosis kept returning despite several excision surgeries, I decided it was time to reclaim my health and let go of any dreams of holding a baby in my arms that carried any of my features or my husband's features. I used to joke that he (my husband) would be "in trouble" because we were going to have a dark-haired baby girl with almond shaped blue eyes.

For awhile, I thought it was the end of the line for this blog and for this project since we are no longer pursuing having children. Until I got to thinking about the fact that our "rainbow" and rising from the murk as a beautiful lotus flower did not exclusively need to pertain to fertility.

Take a moment to think about the challenges you have faced in life. I'm going to guess there have been many, all with varying degrees of intensity. Each of those is a lotus flower just waiting to bloom. Each of those is a rainbow waiting to break out and show that even though it was not the outcome we wanted or expected, there can be beauty in it.

That's why I have decided to continue this blog and this page, but with a new vision.

Let's keep talking about the hard things in life. Let's keep talking about the subjects that are "taboo". This isn't me saying you must publicly profess your struggles. This is me recommitting to talking about things that not everyone is comfortable sharing about their lives. I don't share because I want any pity. I share because if I can help even one person feel seen, heard, and feel less alone, then it is worth the time.

Our rainbows and miracles do not have to be big. Sometimes they are in the little successes, like finding the energy to shower after a long depressive episode or finding the courage to try something new even when anxiety tries to hold you back.

If you take only one thing away from this blog and our page, I hope it is this: You are loved. You are worthy. You are seen. You are heard. You are not "broken'.

So this is me...openly inviting you to continue to try to rise out of the murk even when the murk feels so thick and heavy it seems impossible to bloom. It is always possible to bloom...sometimes, it might just take a decade.

Love,

Kristy

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