This blog is an open invitation to walk with me through the darkest parts of my life into the light spots (and all the dappled shadows in between) so we can figure out together what the heck post-apocalyptic life is all about. The content is shifting slightly because I just happen to be in a place right now (incredibly!) where my uterus is not the first thing on my mind when I wake up in the morning (in fact it's not even the second or third thing--what what whaaat?!). For those of you reading who feel there is no way that you will get here... you will. Promise. One day it happens.

Right now is undoubtedly a light spot for me. I think part of the whole moving forward through pain thing is being really IN the moment and the place you're in. That's no easy task when the ache of the past nags at you fairly persistently, but I'm making a genuine go at it. My current situation has got me thinking a lot lately about this feeling of being split between two worlds. With one foot in each, half of the time I feel like a mighty heroine astride two wild paths (taming them both) and half the time like a clumsy skier (so, me) with two feet slipping independently of each other down the icy crags of an unfamiliar life terrain. There are so many dichotomies to straddle right now : the family I was born into versus the family I have created for myself, the city I was raised in versus the city I've made my home, the career that stubbornly won't let go of my heart versus the career (that I also love in its own rite) that seems more sensible (not to mention for which I did that whole little getting an MA and a License thing). However, feeling like you are smack dab in the middle of a transition is not a unique concept. Anyone who has experienced a loss is especially familiar with this dynamic.

It took a long while for me to unchain myself from the torn sensation miscarriage generates. It quite literally forces you into two worlds simultaneously as your heart and mind and body are prepared for a new phase of life that never comes. The transition from mommy-to-be to babyless mama and then to person just trying to be normal (and oh, say, walk through a grocery store without crying) has finally eased. It eased, however, only to lead me into a new time of transition. And so it goes. Really I guess it's no different than how life seems to gear us up for so many adventures--some of which pan out and some of which don't. I think I've been describing myself as being "in a period of transition" long enough to indicate this is no phase, honey, but rather the perpetual nature of being a human on any sort of life path. There will always be more than one reality smashed together, there will always be two (or more) possible outcomes, two sides of the coin, two roads diverging in a yellow wood. It seems that it's ALL transition and waiting to "arrive" is futile. You make some plans, the Universe says "oh that's cute, but no", you take a total left turn and run smack into something terrifying and beautiful, you do your best to not let fear sabotage you, and you start all over again. 

For those of you that have been sticking with me since I started this blog about ten months ago (wait, WHAT? 10 months? for those of you still reading, you deserve a medal. Bless you, children), you know a bit about my relationship to the endless babycentric emails that used to flood my inbox. There was a time when I couldn't bring myself to delete them because I was wretchedly heartbroken and desperate for the reminder that the pregnancy experience was real, even if it did crash and burn. All this time later, I still routinely receive a few stragglers in my inbox (just like I unnecessarily receive incessant emails from an online store that sells speciality jams and jellies because ONE time I bought a present for someone there. I digress). I have now moved forward from the phase of post-apocalyptic recovery when I was unable to hit the unsubscribe link due to underlying emotional turmoil and on to the phase that allows them to remain for no better reason than I'm just plain being lazy. 

For whatever reason, one of these procreation-themed emails caught my eye yesterday. It's a group called "August 2014 Babies" that I somehow got signed up for by entering my due date into a mommy-to-be website at one time. As I opened the email, topics like "Sleeping with a Hat?", "Diaper Genie", "Who's exhausted?", and "Cereal & Breastfeeding" jumped off my screen. I had a brief, but profound out-of-body experience where I gazed down from above at Parallel Universe Me. In a parallel universe, my thoughts of memorizing lines, or coordinating drama therapy groups, or planning a celebration for my upcoming milestone birthday (my...ahem...21st of course) might have been replaced by thoughts of whether or not my 4.5 month old was sleeping in a hat or how the heck I was going to raise this tiny human to be a confident, passionate, loving member of society.

For those of us initiated into the motherhood club who were unable to emerge with a baby (or, really, anyone who had something dearly hoped for snatched away), there are always going to be a thousand moments like this. There will always be a child you know who is the same age as your baby would have been. There will always be a friend having a smooth pregnancy while yours was nothing but bumpy. There will always be a date that is secretly burned into your internal calendar when your child was meant to arrive. There will always be the persistent specter of "What Could Have Been". These reminders persist well beyond the acute trauma. It wasn't until I started to find peace and humor with this fact, that I truly felt a burden begin to lift. 

In this moment, I have no idea my position on diaper disposal or appropriate infant hat wearing practices and I find myself being increasingly okay with that. I find myself more focused on the work that I'm lucky enough to be doing right now and the beautiful safety net of friends and family support that grounds me. Life does have a way of reminding us of what could have been and it's natural to focus on that for a while, but if you look closely, those what ifs also help highlight what IS and I think embracing that instead seems to be a ticket forward.

Yesterday Chris returned to our life in the city and I stayed in my hometown to start rehearsals for this play. I walked back into the house after dropping him at the airport and it all finally hit me. This is a brave new world. I'm feeling homesick for Chris, for my friends, for my city, but I'm feeling so excited for what lies ahead. I'd be lying if I didn't add that I'm also ever so slightly shell-shocked. 

It's hard to wrap my mind around the fact that I have officially kissed a year of sadness, reproductive disfunction, and surgeries goodbye and now my feet are planted firmly in something brand new. It is maybe a bit strange to begin something totally new in your childhood home--a place so thoroughly steeped in nostalgia--but it's also perhaps the most fitting place to start. Everything is so familiar and yet my whole world has been broken down and built back up since last I was here for any prolonged period of time. It has left me feeling just a bit like a ghost wandering the halls of a former life looking for the place I fit (but, you know, a friendly-style ghost in a cute little hat, nothing too scary). Looking at old photos and revisiting old haunts has only functioned to intensify this feeling of distance and newness. 

Anyone who has dealt with any form of acute or chronic medical issue (certainly not limited to miscarriage or infertility) knows that it threatens to nudge your real life aside and take up residence as your sole raison d'être. It is exhilarating to be faced with the realization that the path that is set in front of me now has nothing to do with needles or hormones or health insurance or my uterus (and the entire internet took a collective sigh of relief that they were granted a reprieve from hearing more about those things for a while). With this exhilaration, however, comes some measure or terror of walking into the unknown. I haven't done any acting in a year and a half--and just under a year of that was spent under the oppressive burden of biological and medical obstacles. I feel like I'm stepping into an experience that used to feel like second nature to me as a whole new person. There is a fine line between the feeling of flying free and the feeling of a free-fall, friends. And here I am (happily) suspended in air somewhere between the two.  Maybe the best way to respect the emotions and the journey of the past while simultaneously moving forward is just to jump in with both feet and trust the lessons learned will function as a parachute. I have no clue what is about to unfold (that part, at least, is not new), but I feel totally ready to give myself over to the process. I predict that I will look back on this time as the slow crawl to the crest of the roller coaster just before it plunges me full-speed into all 2015 has to offer.