Even If It Breaks Your Heart

It is hard to accept that God sometimes gives us blessings that we cannot keep. November is traditionally a month to express thankfulness, and never in all my Novembers have I had to struggle so hard to express that thankfulness through the sorrow that filled my heart. You see, for six short weeks, one small life changed our lives forever. 

We were "done" having kids... and those two little blue lines made us realize we weren't done at all. I was burnt out and discontent as a mother, and in one moment, I was renewed and ecstatic to be a mommy again. The day before I found out I was carrying a new life I had found the courage to speak truth and throw off some baggage I had been carrying far too long. It really was in God's perfect timing that after burying some of the angry ghosts of my past I was at a place to be able to receive this precious gift with joy instead of resentment. 

There was joy, so much joy. Even after the heartbreak, there is still joy. Joy that he was with us, no matter how short, joy that we know where he has gone, joy that we can see him someday. But there is now a piece of us that is missing. That life, that potential, all the hopes and dreams wrapped around that tiny person are now walking along side us, a blank space that doesn't get to be filled. We hope there will be other babies to fill our arms, but they will never replace or repair the pain of the one we carry in our hearts. 

In the short time I carried our baby, I had many of the early symptoms that I had with Grant, which leads us to believe I was carrying another boy. We named him Phoenix, which represents rebirth - his rebirth into Heaven, my rebirth as a mother, and the rebirth of our commitment to parenthood, letting God tell us when we are done, not the other way around. We chose Josiah because he also was a rebirth of the Godly kings in the Bible, a rebirth of the Israelite's commitment to God.

It has been a hard month. Moments that we anticipated the day we first saw that positive test, they never came. What did come were moments when I found myself weeping because others were pregnant and I was not, or sobbing in my three year old's arms because he told me he was going to "take his big airplane up to Heaven and get Mama's baby back." There were days I desperately wished other people knew what I was going through, and yet I couldn't bear the thought of telling them. 

We had planned to announce the baby on Thanksgiving. So after a few weeks of just trying to function, we simply wanted to get away and hold our little family close on this holiday of counting blessings. So we did. A little cabin, a beautiful lake, and a turkey dinner at a picnic table where we thanked God for Phoenix and the impact he had on our lives in that brief span. 

We're still picking up pieces. We are still finding our eyes filled with tears at unexpected moments. We understand that this was a gift, and a lesson. Something to heal from and grow into. And we are learning to accept that sometimes God gives us blessings that we don't always get to keep. 

The Safety in Silence is Over

I could do the safe thing. I could post this in my birth trauma group, or not post it at all. I've been told before that things like this are better shared privately, because not every one is on the same journey as I am, and "at least I was able to have children".

But I'm not content staying silent anymore. Because it was the voices of women before me speaking up that made me feel less isolated when I felt like maybe I'd failed, or maybe I'd never be all right again. If they had stayed silent, I wouldn't have been able to heal, and if my voice can help just one other to heal, it is worth it.

Three years ago, my life changed forever. What was supposed to be a joyous, sucessful introduction into motherhood turned into a living nightmare. My plan for quietly bringing my son into the world and spending our first precious hours soaking in every detail was shattered in minutes by bright lights, strangers everywhere, and tubes and needles being shoved into his beautiful soft skin before I ever even had the chance to touch him.

He and I have never seen each other without our scars. His from IVs and heel pricks, mine from a surgeon's knife. We also didn't get to know each other before the emotional scars too. And those are the ones I hate the most. The ones I've tried to hide. The scar on my stomach healed beautifully, my heart has not.

For months I battled severe depression, anxiety, anger, detachment, and post traumatic stress. I would alternate between wanting to give my baby away to someone who could love him more, to not wanting to let him out of my sight because I would have flashbacks of his birth and be afraid he would be taken away again. Irrational fears were making me back out of plans and avoid leaving the house. I hated driving with the baby in the car because we might gett into an accident, and I would have panic attacks if I had to drive at dusk or in the dark.

Then, eventually I found peace. We lived with my in laws for a month before moving into our new house, and it was the best thing that could have happened. Not being the one primarily caring from the baby, being able to care for myself, and the daily socialization with people I felt safe around gave me room to breathe. It was there, watching my mother-in-law take joy in all of Grant's antics, that I first felt genuine attachment to my son. I had finally been able to take a step back & fall in love with my baby for who he was, instead of seeing him as a reminder of what we had been through.

We've been through a lot, he and I. Healing is not a linear progression. Trauma is not the same for everyone, and it is not something you simply "get over" and move on from. But we can move forward, one small step at a time.

Happy birthday, my son. Mama treasures you for all your bravery and sweetness; for all the times you patted away the tears on my cheeks during those dark days & for giving me the strength to step on to the healing path. I love you, my little warrior.

Funny Little Thing Called Worth

I grew up with the belief that a mother's worth lies in what she sacrificed for her children. And that, unless she sacrificed it all, she was selfish or messed up or influenced by feminist worldview. Her time, her health, her hobbies - all of it had to be laid on the altar of motherhood with the hope that someday she might be able to regain some of it once her kids grew up. "Milk/medicine/_____ is for the children" was a phrase burned into my mind at a young age; even though I didn't feel like this self-depreciation was right, it still molded my actions when I became a mother.

My husband and I are focusing on our health this year, both physical & mental. Recently, I was recommended for a therapy that is relatively expensive, and while discussing it with Stuart, I mentioned that the price was making me hesitant to try it. When he pointed out that just a single visit to his holistic doctor had cost nearly that much, my immediate thought was "Yes... but you're worth it." Now, I've been working a lot on self-care and learning to combat my negative preset responses, but it's still there. And I don't use the word 'combat' lightly.

You see, I fight daily to keep my head above the waves of worthlessness and the gaping void of depression that tries to pull me in. It was only by the grace of God and the love of some very good friends that kept me going. And when I found myself thrown into motherhood dealing with anxiety, depression, PTSD, and my skewed perception of my role in life, it was the love and support of my husband that made me reach out for help.

Because maybe, if others saw my worth, I could see it too. And, maybe, if the man of my dreams thought I was valuable - I could find value in myself as well. So I did. It's not an easy journey, and I don't think I'll ever completely reach the end, but I am finally on the path to healing. I am valuable, for who I am, not just for what I can offer. Being a mom is just one of the many things I do, and being a genuine, wholehearted person is a much greater legacy to pass on to my children than being bitter or feeling selfish for wanting alone time. Finding my peace & teaching my kids to find theirs is purpose filling and gives my role meaning.

"God loves us the way we are, but he loves us too much to leave us that way."