As I promised I occasionally would, I am taking a moment to come out of my blogging sabbatical (I've missed talking to all of you so much!). The focus it has allowed me to allocate to writing my book and other professional endeavors has been important, but having this space to share what I am turning over in my mind and to connect with you remains sacred to me too. How are you??! Grab a coffee or tea or wine (or straight whiskey, you know I don't judge) and get comfy so we can catch up properly! 

So, for some reason I have been having this experience lately. It feels as if the stories of beautiful, strong women I know shared with me both directly and peripherally are emerging and fitting together for a specific reason. It feels like one of those Magic Eye pictures where a chaotic constellation of colored dots yields an image when focused on in the right way. The stories that are continuously brought to my attention appear to be weaving together to highlight a message about choice, and loss, and the way we reconcile these things as women and potential mothers. I had a heartfelt conversation with a friend recently about life and death and how they unavoidably intermingle, particularly in our relationship to our reproductive journeys. Whether we make the choice to try again after a loss, or the choice not to, or the choice not to have children at all, or the choice to put ourselves at the mercy of fertility treatments or the adoption process, that choice for life comes with an inherent death of the corresponding paths not taken. There is loss in all of these possibilities, but there is also so much life in them. 

I don't know what my motherhood story will be. At one point I was so certain of what it would look like, but I look back at that version of myself with a disbelief and jealousy that she was able to be so very sure. I recently returned for my much-anticipated first OBGYN appointment since my surgery (one day maybe I'll post my unfinished reflections "Back in the Stirrups Again" which currently remains in my drafts folder). At my appointment, my OB asked when I had received the go-ahead from the reproductive endocrinologist/surgeon to get back to trying for a baby. I realized it has been about 8 months since I got that okay. There was a pregnant (har har) pause (which I very well may have imagined) where I felt this gentle pressure to explain myself. I fiddled with the strings of my pale blue doctors' office gown and told the truth; that my body, mind, and spirit needed a little space from the baby-making rat race to regroup, reconnect, refocus. Right now I very much still want to give birth to a child some day and I am told that after my surgeries the equipment should be in working order, but there is also no way of knowing that until I try. Until we decide the time is right, I live in the uncomfortable acceptance that when that time comes, I still may not be able to. This is my choice, of course, to take a breath and wait (despite the fact that the branding of "advanced maternal age" waits for no woman), but the death of that forward reproductive energy is still a loss. The death of all that could have been always takes its toll. Similarly, for friends who have decided they never want to have children (and who are perfectly comfortable with that decision), I have heard about how that choice still carries with it a significant inherent loss whether it be emotionally or of biological potential. 

I feel such a strong sense of kinship with all the babyless mamas out there (those who can't have babies, those who choose not to have babies, those who have lost babies, those who are longing for their baby who is growing in their heart rather than their womb to be delivered into their arms from overseas). I understand the intangible sense of loss that shimmers just below the surface of any variety of maternal aching. Earlier in my journey, perhaps I found myself more connected to those who desperately wanted babies but could not have them, but recently it has come into view how linked we all are. There is a universality in that every person has a relationship to their reproductive choices that holds great power as well as strong positive and negative energies.  Along with the power that comes with our choices there comes the need to accept how out of control we are of some of the factors along the way. Just because we own and embrace and celebrate our choices after doing the hard work of making them, it doesn't mean they don't hurt. Just because we choose Door 1 doesn't mean we get to ignore that Door 2 and Door 3 exist and carry their own potential. There is darkness and light in every choice we make and we have to make space for both. 

The experience of a sense of mourning coinciding with any choice made is not unique to mothers or to females or to reproductive issues. We all grieve the loss of expectations we've held tightly to over the years and we often are surprised finding ourselves grieving the ones we never expected or wanted in the first place. When we choose a path there is no way to deny that by walking down one, we forego another. Sure we could look at this like there is heartbreak at every turn, but we could also look at it like there is potential abounding at every turn. I have experienced first hand how endless possibilities can start to feel like none, but I am trying to learn to stand in the knowledge that mourning the loss of what could have been is part of making it to where you ultimately need to be (and to fully appreciating that place). Standing bravely, and openly, and humbly in the groundlessness of our choices is all we can ever do. 

For one year and three months I have faithfully poured my heart into this blog on a weekly and at times twice-weekly basis. I have become acquainted with so many women far and wide who relate to the experience of losing a baby or to some form or reproductive dysfunction. I have made a wide range of dark jokes about my uterus and other things polite ladies don't discuss at tea. I have rushed to these virtual pages to share my tears, my anecdotes, my discoveries, my absurdity, my epiphanies, my confusion. The habit and structure of writing here every single Tuesday has been a life raft and an instrument of great personal and collective healing. 

For a long while I've been excited about the idea of transforming this blog into a book and then expanding these connections I've made into my practice as a Licensed Creative Arts Therapist. I've decided for a little while I am going to re-allocate some of my Tuesday blogging time slots to pulling together a draft of a book. I will still of course jump back in with a blog entry from time to time (like, for instance, I'm sure you're all on the edge of your seats to hear about how my much anticipated reunion with my OBGYN goes next week), but I am also energized at the prospect of taking the necessary time to transform the Ever Forward blog into something new that could potentially reach even more warrior mamas out there.

When I started this blog I was just looking for validation that I was not the only one who had an urge to throw an edition of Goodnight Moon through a cafe window and sob every time they saw a happily pregnant woman (and to in turn validate anyone else who was feeling the same, but was afraid to say so). What ended up happening has far exceeded my wildest dreams. It turns out that we're all just looking for creative ways to put back together the shattered pieces of our hearts and to keep our senses of humor while we do it. 

For those of you who have been reading every week (thankyouthankyouthankyou!!!!), I can't properly express my gratitude to you for sticking with me! This is not goodbye but rather just a heads up that entries perhaps won't be as frequent as I turn my attention toward pulling the book together (I didn't want you to wonder what the heck is going on). Feel free to keep checking back in for updates and continue to comment and email whenever you like because you know I love hearing from you! I wouldn't be living into the promise of "ever forward" if I didn't take this next step and I truly couldn't have made it here without you (yes, I'm talking to YOU, specifically). You're the best. Thanks for being a mess with me, sharing your stories with me, growing with me, and being my tribe! Stay tuned for info about the next chapter in the Ever Forward adventure!!!!

Okay, so last week I may or may not of said that this week I would be doing a big Homage to Failure, but it turns out I lied (irony, right?). That will have to be for another week. Life is full of missed steps and unexpected detours (but if you're reading this blog I probably don't need to explain that to you...either because you've dealt with miscarriage and/or infertility...or just because you have a pulse).  Right now I am running on three hours of sleep due to a quick trip to my hometown and an early flight back so I'm going to keep this short and sweet.

The number one thing I have come to learn is that having expectations is a totally hilarious and futile thing to do. You can't help it of course, so don't go beating yourself up. It's the human condition to provide ourselves with some sort of structure for how we think things should go so we don't feel like we're free-falling through our existence. For better or worse, I've always been one to keep a death grip on my expectations and then get crushed if they don't pan out. Anything from dinner plans to career plans to birth plans have been subject to my iron rule of expectations. Time after time I have watched my expectations get completely blown to smithereens--sometimes in a good way and often in a disastrous way--and in both cases I had an equal lack of control. 

I've been wrestling with this feeling of being untethered lately due to the Universe basically pointing and laughing at all my most cherished expectations. A wise person, upon hearing me talk about my chronic untethered-ness said, "Maybe this is just the time you're learning to be tethered to yourself". I have thought about this phrase so much ever since it was uttered to me. I have reflected on it in many ways. Being "tethered to yourself", to me, is about checking in with my core so that no matter what crazy curve balls are thrown my way, I have enough trust in my own center to know I can navigate the path ahead (despite it looking absolutely nothing like what I expected). This concept also implies that we don't have to be subject to what the world expects of us (or things we "should" do) if we are comfortable with the rules you are setting for ourselves. I've found this to be a comforting thought as I maneuver my way back from a thwarted foray into mommyhood and through the ripple effect of unexpected consequences and discoveries that it it set in motion. This week I just want to gift you with this idea of tethering to yourself. I hope it sparks something in you like it did in me. No matter what you happen to be going through in your life, we could all benefit from the practice of checking in with our inner most core and from the permission to trust what we find without judgement.

If I were a total nerd, I would have called this blog post MOMorial day. But of course I would never even think of something that nerdy because I'm so flippin' rad. This is another late-edition blog post because I did a weekend away for Memorial Day and instead of drafting up a blog post on Monday, I fell asleep on a sunny deck with a drink propped against my side. So, a different kind of productivity. Over the weekend we spent time with friends who have a house by the beach. While we hung out with their friends from the little beach community there (a fun couple who have two kids). 

Over afternoon drinks, the husband of said couple asked me when Chris and I were planning on having kids. Feeling like it was not the place to launch into one of my signature real-talk heart-to-hearts I answered playfully with "who knows!" and shot a knowing smile at my girlfriend who is my sister in the trenches of reproductive dysfunction. I couldn't help noting how that question no longer has the emotional sting for me as it once did. A little later in the afternoon again it came up when one of the children was having a tantrum and he joked, "Aren't you glad you made the choice not to have kids?". Again I kind of just shrugged it off, no biggie. I coached myself internally, saying : not everything has to be a miscarriage in-service, Becca. Then in the early evening when we were slouched in the living room even more socially lubricated from day-drinking, I got asked a THIRD time, this time more directly, "No really, I know its a personal question, but are you guys planning on having kids at all?" 

I don't really know why this was such a topic of interest, but I guess people just like to figure each other out sometimes. I wasn't going to do a big song and dance, but by the third time I felt I had held out long enough that no one could accuse me of being "that chick who always brings up miscarriage" so I might as well just answer openly and simply. I did. I said that our lack of children wasn't due to lack of wanting one, but that last year we had lost a baby. The honesty was met with comfortable honesty in return. He said he was so sorry to hear that and shared that they had lost a pregnancy very early on. And that was it. 

It is wild to look back and see how this question used to throw me for SUCH a loop and now I actually in a way enjoy the chance to share and be honest about my experience. I think people like stories of success, but what they like even more are people who are honest about the stumbles, bumbles, tears, and falls along the way, because those are moments to which we can all relate. This brings me to a topic that I have been musing a lot on due to a book that my dear friend Courtney recently gifted me about embracing failures and getting back up even stronger after. To be continued! Stay tuned for my big "celebration of the beauty of getting the crap kicked out of you by life" post next week...

I thought I'd outsource a bit and share this article about Miscarriage Myths. I was mostly struck by number #6 which talks about the emotional realities of miscarriage. In a study published in the journal of Obstetrics & Gynecology. Only 45% of women surveyed who experienced miscarriage reported they received "adequate emotional support" from the medical community. This is personally and professionally very interesting to me. I touch on my relationship to this topic a bit in THIS POST I wrote about the day the day a physician (not my physician, mind you, just the one that happened to be there on call when I had that fateful last sonogram) told me I miscarried. I remember the way the doctor awkwardly sat with me for a few seconds as I sobbed and then got up and left apologetically. I remember how the sonogram technician would not make eye contact with me. I remember looking back how no emotional support services of any kind were offered. How can this be? I think I may have to get around to fixing that. In the meantime, if you are reading this and looking for further support while you wrestle with any phase of the aftermath of miscarriage, feel free to reach out to me here : reytherapy@gmail.com and I can help point you in the right direction! 

I did a Mother's Day de-briefing last year to process all the ways that day had poked at prodded at a very fresh wound. I really didn't expect to do one this year, because as we all know I am totally FINE...like completely FINE....DOESN'T EVERYONE SEE HOW FINE I AM???!! So as it would turn out, being well out of the acute phase of the trauma of miscarriage does not exempt you from needing to excuse yourself in the middle of the afternoon to sob like a baby. I mean, so I've heard...

I happen to love motherhood. I love my mother and the magical way she gets me because she made me. I love maternal, nurturing energy. I loved seeing everyone smiling in pictures with their moms all over Facebook on Mom's Day. I've always felt this way. I've felt drawn to the pure magic of pregnancy, childbirth, and the role of being a parent since I was a tiny little girl. Because mommyhood has always been in my blood, it is a bit of cruel irony that of all the medical or emotional traumas that could have been dropped into my lap, miscarriage and reproductive issues were the ones I ended up saddled with. I think that's what made Mother's Day hard for me this year. Despite everything that happened, I still genuinely love the institution of motherhood and it hurts my feelings to not have the kind of ownership of it that I wish I had. 

I wish I could guarantee that I would be one of those smiling mommies cradling their newborns on their first Mother's Day. It's always the not-knowing, isn't it? Will I get to be part of that sisterhood? Then I was absolutely blown away by the love and care that was shown to me by my friends and family that day. I truly didn't expect that, but out of the woodwork came friends telling me that they recognized my maternal energy even if I did not have a baby to show for it. One girlfriend sent me this article about a woman who speaks of still being a mom even though her baby was never born, my mom got me a little present, another girlfriend left a heartfelt message on my machine listing the ways she felt I embodied the goodness of motherhood, other friends and family sent texts, emails, and good vibes. It made me realize that I already was part of a pretty incredible a sisterhood (personhood) even if it's not the one I expected to find myself in this Mother's Day. 

My would-be First Mother's Day reminded me to embrace the fact that this experience lives inside me and accept that it is going to continue to rear its head at various significant moments. There will never be a point in my life when I the experience won't hurt. However, as the months and years go on, it seems that its memory will transform and highlight the ways I have grown and those that have been by my side for the ride. Even though my pregnancy did not manifest a baby, it manifested a brand new relationship with my body, a transformed outlook on the word, and an even deeper connection to the support system I have around me. 

Every now and again I snap into the parallel universe that might have existed. With Mother's Day approaching, the distance I have been able to maintain from that parallel universe seems to be (temporarily, I hope) closing in. This weekend will be the second Mother's Day I have experienced (and by "experienced" I of course mean, the second one that has been a real B-word to endure).  Even though I have made the personal decision not to actively pursue another baby right away, I was surprised to find those old ghosts haven't gone far.

It's spring time and just as the hyacinth and peonies and cherry blossoms are bursting into bloom, so seem to be the mamas in my neighborhood. Why does my baby bump radar seem to kick into hyperdrive at this time of year? I feel like preggo bellies and newborns are absolutely everywhere. What's the most wild to me is that those mamas are no longer my parallel universe doppelgängers. My parallel universe chicas are the ones with EIGHT month olds strapped to their chests or nestled into strollers trying to run me off the sidewalk. If all had gone as planned, I would be celebrating my first Mother's Day on Sunday with an eight month old tiny Becca spawn glued to me. That blows my mind. As it stands now, however, I don't even know what having an eight month old means. I mean, I do, developmentally, but I simply cannot wrap my head around the reality of it. Oh how very different my life might have looked right now if my pregnancy had gone the distance.

I realize I can mark my mental state over the last few Springs in peonies, my favorite flower. Two years ago when Chris and I were casually "not not trying" to have a baby he bought me a bouquet on Mother's Day "for my future baby-mama", he said as a sweet joke. Then last year, when we had just lost the baby a few months earlier, I bought a bunch for myself as did Chris because we decided babyless mamas deserved flowers too. Fast forward to this year, when I bought myself the glorious blossoms pictured above without even connecting it to Mother's Day at all (man, the difference a couple years make). They sit in a big mason jar lighting up my kitchen counter reminding me that time really does heal (very slowly, but surely nonetheless). The healing process is in full effect, but the specter of that trauma still comes and goes, floating around me as it pleases. 

I wonder if it will always be like this, for we mothers that might have been. The more time that passes, the more it seems clear that I will always have an awareness how old the baby would have been at every special occasion, of each Mother's Day where I buy my own flowers, of the birthdays that won't come in August. Sometimes I wonder why I am still writing this blog a little over a year after my miscarriage, but I think I keep doing it because I am continuously surprised by the big ways and small that his experience has colored every season of my life. I want to keep talking about it because as I move farther away from the acute experience it becomes even clearer in my rearview mirror. I would never want any of you out there reading to think you are alone for still getting sucker punched by the ramifications of miscarriage even when there are years between you and it.  There is no expiration date on the scars that losing a pregnancy leaves. Sure, those scars transform over time, sometimes they are more noticeable than others, but they are always there. It's hard to imagine anyone who has experienced this NOT thinking about it on a holiday dedicated to motherhood. So to all of my compatriots in this weird sisterhood (and those who love them), I'll be thinking of you on Mother's Day and honoring the ways we continue to make sense of the longterm impact of thwarted mommyhood.

Hey everyone, remember when my OBGYN office used to be like my own personal "Cheers"? When I would fill up this blog's pages with plucky anecdotes about how I was on a first name basis with all the receptionists, how I would kiki with the lady who drew my blood on a weekly basis, and how and how they embroidered my name into a personalized pair of stirrup covers (ok, fine, the last one isn't true)? Well, for the last month I've been doing that thing where I transfer "make OBGYN appointment" from week to week in my planner without ever actually checking it off. 

Look, it's not that i'm afraid of coming face to face with the fact that my  gynecological VIP status has expired  (what do you MEAN "last name"?! It's me! Becca!! Remember? Life hands her a wonky uterus and she makes lemonade?), but there is certainly something causing a great deal of resistance to walking through those doors again. I'm sure there is some level of low-grade PTSD associated with the place where so many life-altering moments occurred, but that's not all of it. And sure, there's the fact that I'll find myself once again in a waiting room full of women comfortably resting hands on successfully swelling pregnant bellies, but I suppose I can handle that as well at this point. I think this resistance falls most closely in line with my current desire to revolt against reproductive convention. There are certain questions I don't want to have to answer, other questions I don't know how to answer, and there are answers I don't want to know. And then there are the questions I am most afraid of : the ones that have no answers like : did the surgery work? is my body going to do what it is supposed to do when called up to do so ? Will I have to become a regular here again? and if I take longer than a few more years to decide what's what in that department am I going to be slapped with that ridiculous scarlet A for "Advanced Maternal Age"? 

The truth of the matter is, it's just a darn annual exam, ya know? Get in, perhaps feel awkward for a few seconds, get out. We all know the drill. But for me (and for so many of us), that space is charged with so much more. I can never go back to being the version of me who came in for an exam purely as a formality. Now I have levels that need to be reassessed, I have new uterine architecture to be surveyed, and I have to come face to face with my obstetric failings in an unemotional, clinical way.  I've separated myself from this experience in many ways, and I guess this is just one of those things that unavoidably closes that distance I've been working to build. There are so many moments in our journeys forward where we need to continue to take steps even when they feel crunchy and unsteady, this is one of those moments. Time to pick up the phone... 

At this time last year all I could think about was babies. They seemed to be taunting me from within strollers, popping out from around corners, and parking themselves next to me in cafes to gloat constantly. Their tiny, smug, powder-scented selves were perpetually pitying me, judging me, and being just generally insensitive to my plight. Somewhere between then and now so much has shifted. Babies are no longer jerks to me I'm happy to report (if you're a baby reading this, thank you, much appreciated), but the shift runs much deeper too.

The other day I was walking down the street with Jeremy and I heard myself saying, "I don't think I'm going to have a baby until my late 30s". I think this statement seemed like a joke to him after the pregnancy mania that he has been forced to co-endure over the last year, but as I heard myself speak that future projection, I realized, I don't know if that's 100% true, but I also truly don't have a pregnancy plan at the moment. I always thought that we would "get right back on the horse" (that phrase feels unattractive for this scenario, but you know what I mean), but I feel like whether it was entirely conscious decision or not, somewhere along the way I decided to take a little time out from baby fever. 

Miscarriage has a way of consuming you. The fact that it has effects on your body, your mind, your spirit, sometimes tricks you into thinking that it is everything. For a long time it felt like everything. For ages the only key out of the maze of pain, of surgery, of blood level monitoring, of longing seemed to be having a solid plan regarding when we could try again. "When will we be able to try again?" I asked my doctor every step of the way and after each new medical intervention. "When will you be able to try again?" asked every person ever (regardless of whether it was any of their business) as if that was the universally accepted next logical step. I think for many people that is the next logical step, and that's wonderful if it is, but for whatever reason, I have needed the time to take stock of my life post-apocalyptically.  

Miscarriage creates a tidal wave that I at first thought I would ride directly back into Babytown, but for me it has turned out to be different. It is taking me longer than I expected to repair my relationship with the babies of the world, but not necessarily in a bad way. My distance from breeder-mania gave me the time to look at the things I want in my life outside of a successful pregnancy. My miscarriage was a radical pause in the momentum I had been swept along with for my whole life. What resulted was a period of time which I am currently in where I have been able to start to take stock of what is what. I see this time as a gift even though it came along with the worst heartbreak I've ever felt. 

I still cry when I see anyone give birth in a movie or at that recent commercial where little kids have to identify their mommies with a blindfold on (that one snuck up on me, but sob I sure did, i'm such a sucker), so I know in my heart that I still very much ache to be a mother, but now I know I want it in a much more intentional kind of a way. Was it worth the excruciating pain and resulting falling-out with the High Counsel of Tiny Babies? Who's to say. And actually, I don't think it matters. It's just like everything in life, we can't put a judgement of "worth it" or "not worth it" on the paths that got us to where we are. We can only look at where we are in the present moment, accept it, and make choices from there. 

I sat down to write my blog yesterday and I was struck with a serious acute febrile affliction known as Spring Fever. It was finally warm, it smelled like sun warmed hyacinth and fresh air, the sky was bright blue, and my head was completely consumed with lust for iced coffees, road trips, sundresses, and blissfully prolonged daylight hours. I crawled out onto my fire escape to soak in and be inspired to write by the glorious weather, but instead I came up short. I tried to look at things from all angles, but I was left feeling unfocused like all my internal stabilizers were on the fritz and crusted over with new-Spring pollen. So today, I opened up my trusty (and blank) blog draft from yesterday and although today the day is gray and rainy and still, I still am feeling lost for words. 

I'm deciding to call a spade a spade here and just acknowledge that sometimes on the Ever Forward journey you take a little detour that trips you up and you don't know how to put it into words. Spring Fever is also very much a disease of transition. I'm staring out my window at a line of trees. Some have burst forth into green buds, and some are still stark and bare like a relic of winter all alien and misplaced in the newly warm air. Right now I'm one of those bare trees. Energy, hard-earned life lessons, and passion pulse within me but it's not clear yet what direction it's heading. This is just one of those weeks where I feel less capable of making sense of this particularly strange season in Ever Forwardland. If you happen to be feeling that way too, lets just give ourselves a pass for now and trust that new life will spring up from the dormant soils oh so very soon, huh?

Please accept this in place of more lengthy heartfelt insights this week :