The Hardest Thing.

For some years now I've been sharing with you, Dear Reader, my story.  I've often shared my trials here and found healing in doing so.  Many have reached out in similar circumstances or with kind words to impart and my heart has warmed to the idea of letting others in.

You have helped to heal me.

But the truth is that I share things here when I'm damned good and ready to do so.  When I've processed them a bit, when I've decided to let my guard down and when I've wrapped my head around what's going on.  I filter it heavily and compose words that won't hurt too much - for both you and me.

What I need to share here now is not the same.  I have not processed.  There is a smaller filter.  I am still broken and damaged in a way that has changed my life and I am going to say the words anyway.

I am scared. 

But my heart has been pulling at me for some time to seek healing here.  To share this burden and allow myself to hope that some part of it can be lessened in doing so.

Thank you - for allowing me to have this safe space to be me more fully.

___

I have always wanted to be a mother.  I've known it since the beginning of my time.  Some women tell different tales - not knowing until they were of a certain age or still questioning it even as Parenting called their name.

But not me, I've known.

My younger years found me as the oldest child in my extended family and therefore the perfect babysitter.  I naturally moved into watching other's children and professionally have worked with every age group there can be in numerous educational settings.  I love kids.

As a woman in my mid-30's, most of my friends who want kids, have them. And I love them.  I'm not the friend who gets annoyed by crying or pissed about your little tagging along - I encourage it.  I truly enjoy being around kids of all ages and do my best to connect with them genuinely.

But I do not have my own children.

For many, many years, my now ex (and still wonderful) husband and I tried to conceive.  It is a vicious process. So many doctors appointments and medications and OPINIONS and charts and temperatures and timing and so much lost hope.  So much.

Infertility is disheartening in every fashion.  Physically, mentally, and emotionally, it takes it's toll at every turn.

It causes you to doubt yourself, your partner, the people around you.  It harbors jealousy and anger and more loneliness than is reasonable.

Because we don't talk about this.  There is not a club to join.  It is HARD TO SHARE.

And parenthood has it's perks of community.  There are so many discussions at my age that naturally uninvite me, the non-parent.  Friendships are formed and strengthened (and sometimes the opposite, I'll admit) by sharing parenting stories, tips, clothes, outings and more.

I've never been pregnant so I wouldn't know.
I've never given birth so I wouldn't know.
I've never had a child so I wouldn't know.

So I'm not asked, called, texted, messaged or addressed.  It's ostracizing.

But it's not all "them." It's often me.

Because there is pain there.  So much sadness.

I have slowly shut down connections that previously sustained me because the pain was too much.  And I feel awful about that. Awful. But at some point you have to stop your heart from breaking.

And just as I don't know the joys and sorrows of becoming a mother - many other people do not understand the pain of infertility.  It is so hard to convey that your heart and soul can want something so DEEPLY, so inherently - and that your body will deny you this gift.

It is impossible to talk about how deep that sorrow runs.

And yet here is my dichotomy - so many articles on the internet rage against those who might ask a woman of her plans for procreation.  "How Dare They?!," the headlines shout.  And I disagree. It's such a natural question with nary an ill intention behind it.  I think we CHOOSE to be offended or not and there is such an opportunity for education and mutual understanding when the question is posed - I hate to see that chance squandered.  So I do my best to interact when faced with the inevitable "when are you having kids?" inquiry.  But I do so carefully, at a shallow level so as not to betray the sadness in my heart.

And now I'm sharing here. In hopes of bringing light to this place that feels so dark.

I feel empowered by strong women around me who have shared their own stories - of far away adoption, of reuniting foster siblings, of miscarriage, of daily life in foster care, of the hardship that is parenting and the unexplainable pain of losing a child.  You are all so strong.  And I hope in sharing, you've found some healing too.

Yes, I know - there are options.

So many lovely friends have offered to carry a child for me - can you imagine the selfless act of this offer?  It is mind-blowing and my gratitude is enormous.

There is adoption which is beautiful and so close to my heart.  Growing up I thought I would adopt at some point, without hesitation.  But now?  When my body is telling me that I cannot be a mother? I cannot bring myself to fathom it.  It is a hurdle I just can't jump quite yet.  And this is hard for me to say.

It is all hard for me to say.

There are so many aspects of life that I have kicked ass in.  Places I have triumphed and overcome and not looked back.  But this?  It brings me to my knees.  Sometimes I can't even "go there" because it's just too much.

It's just so sad.

There are so many question marks.

And it is so hard to hope.

This has lent itself to destroying relationships, contributed heavily to the end of a marriage, shaken my self-confidence unbearably and caused me to doubt all that I am and my future in this world.  

But I promised myself that this year would be about healing.  That I would reach into the places that are most difficult, that have the strongest walls built around them and bring the light in.

You, Dear Reader, are that light.

Thank you for reading.