Emotions are a funny thing. We have this great gift of logic, but we generally overuse it. We think ourselves out of situations instead of feel our way out. This leads to many disjointed ways of life and unhappiness as our souls are confined by our logic. Or, maybe that’s just me….

I am an abuser of logic. I organize, pat myself on the back when I act in a rational way, and sometimes (oops!) even judge others for being their irrational selves. How dare they react with emotion?! Well, today was another humbling of my being, making sure everything out there that’s visible and invisible isn’t tricked into thinking I am completely healed from my trauma.

Today, or for the last few days, I’ve been trying to get a simple prescription filled with my pharmacy. I have my loathed obgyn office and a wonderful general practitioner I’ve started seeing for the adoption medical information and updates required. (See how I am logically valuing them, even now?!) Well, this simple thyroid drug I’ve been told I need to stay alive has been filled in the past by both, so I wasn’t sure where the prescription would come from this week.

So, the pharmacy I use contacted my (old! never going back!) obgyn office and I got a prescription approval update on a medical app I have on my phone, but the pharmacy was saying the request was denied. Deciding I could handle a little email to my dreaded obgyn office through the app to get this solved, I bucked up and did just that, but felt the familiar fear and irritation that is present in moments when we have to get something done by collaborating with someone/some place we resist.

Caught off guard, I see a vaguely familiar, local number on my phone and decide to answer it. Surprisingly, I hear a familiar voice on the other line. This voice has told me at least a dozen times what my hcg number has fallen to, when I need to come in for more blood work to confirm my babies are dying sufficiently, and – when they don’t die sufficiently – this voice has told me to “hold still” and “this will hurt a little” when administering poison (methotrexate shots) to kill what cells are left of my fetus…and also totally wipe out any other cells delivering healthy immunity to my body.

Put in those terms (after some time to think), I can see why this conversation freaked me out. When this voice told me that she really needed me to come in for a PAP smear and annual visit, I couldn’t decide whether to fight or to take flight. Do I angrily come back with all the horrific medical “practicing” they used on me? All the times I caught their mistakes? Remind her of the many instances where I had to advocate for myself, do my own research, and double check their assumptions that turned out to be wrong because of being uneducated or just plain lazy?

My good old logical side kicked in. I flew as fast as I could in a calm manner.

“I hear you. Thank you. I already got my thyroid medicine refilled by my general practitioner in the meantime.”

“No, she doesn’t also do my PAP smears…”

“Well, after everything the last few years…I am taking a little break from my yearly exams…”

“No, no, I do not need to be transferred to reception to book an appointment.”

I hung up at the appropriate time. Then, I lost it.

Just a little thing like refilling such a flimsy, (necessary, I suppose) benign medicine and I am reduced to sobs. Logic cannot outrun all our emotions – not even after almost a full year without hearing that voice.

I probably will never be “all better.” My fight or flight response to certain stimuli surrounding my losses, my deepest pain, will probably always crop up from time to time. It’s always going to happen when I least expect it (otherwise I could logically prepare for it!). These instances hardly happen anymore, but it’s shocking, sad, and a little bewildering when they do. There is a large part of me that has moved on so I am always surprised by that vulnerable place that is still hurting and that demands to be recognized for its loss.

To those of you reading this that know this type of moment too well…I am so sorry. I am sorry you’ve had something happen to you from which your soul cannot quite fully recover. But, there really is beauty in that pain. There is an awareness that there, once, was a treasured thing…something so valuable it will not be forgotten. Whether that valuable thing was a person – or maybe just an idea, like hope for another outcome – there is beauty in recognizing that it was there, and that (mostly) you are functioning okay without it now. To repeat one of my favorite phrases heard most Sundays of my life: peace be with you. That is my greatest wish for you.

What is the most appropriate way to answer seemingly benign questions that actually stab through to your heart center? How do you make people feel comfortable after you answer their penetrating questions?

For me, I’ve started to try to a) be honest b) know my limits, and c) be kind. And, as a wise woman reminded me lately, “We are not responsible for other people’s happiness [read: reactions to things].” I am working on wording and length/depth of revelation, but I also realize those items might have to be spontaneously decided in the moment each and every time by the nature of things.

For instance, this morning I went to a volunteer meeting and someone I casually know asked how our adoption is going. She is currently 16 weeks pregnant so she was excited to talk about all things baby. In her enthusiasm, after we had mildly discussed our adoption progress and her current pregnancy, she asked if we have considered having biological children.

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Did I skip a few beats in the conversation – or just internally?

I think I played it off smoothly. I have started to be brave enough to speak with truth when asked point-blank questions like this. I responded by telling her we have had some trouble. People never seem entirely satiated with that answer, so I went on to almost whisper that we have had some losses. (This is probably a good time to tell you we were surrounded by others, all eating lunch after this meeting, having conversations that could, at any time, veer off to join ours. This wasn’t my ideal setting to have this conversation, but I also am tired of having to hide my miscarriage history by lying, all for the sake of making someone feel comfortable with their questions.)

After I divulged we have experienced loss/we lost one at 17 weeks/doctors have told us we are just “unlucky”/we’ve always wanted to adopt/we are still working out whether we will ever try again/but probably not, she – like most well intentioned people – tells a story about her one friend that tried for years and now has a healthy baby. She tells me that it will probably just happen when we are not trying.

Now this part is always baffling to me. I know people mean well, but those who don’t have experience with the loss of babies confuse it with pure infertility (the lack of an ability to get pregnant). I always want to correct them, saying, “Well, but I know I can get pregnant, remember? So that’s not really my issue, you know?” And how do I explain, for example, the tracking for the correct timing of progesterone because to “just see what happens” will most likely mean “fetal demise” for my conclusion? And how do I translate the dropping out of my heart and the pain in the deepest part of my soul when I entertain the thought of another miscarriage? So…I just recognize the intention of her story and nod.

Then she asks, “How many losses have you had?” Yes, over lunch after a meeting. The nearby tables are full. I shyly hold up four fingers and give her a shrug. Then, as the setting invites, we get interrupted and the conversation is lost altogether.

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If I ended this blog post up there, that gives you a good feeling of how this conversation ended for me. Very incomplete. I felt generally okay giving her the information I did as I am not ashamed of my miscarriages and think it is vital for women to start talking openly about these things. However, personally, after telling someone I’ve lost four tiny people, I could definitely have used a bit of closure. Just one more sentence, like, “Wow, that must have been hard,” or “I am so sorry.”

But, you know what? She is not responsible for my feelings either! She probably felt very uncomfortable and not sure how to bring it up again. She may even have been a little stunned, thinking of her little 16 week old baby in utero and mine that didn’t make it much past that point of gestation. My gut tells me to just write her a little note so I feel closure, and then move on entirely.

When we open ourselves up for connection, it isn’t always smooth, timely, or plain comfortable. But, I believe honesty, knowing our limits, and kindness will get us through most family planning questions. I intend to keep telling my story – at varying degrees of detail – and I will get better at the delivery, making people more comfortable with the true answer to what they have – somehow unwittingly – asked.

I have been thinking a lot about patience. Many dear ones comment about how patient my husband and I are, waiting for this international adoption to progress, even after our four biological losses. To be clear, I like the sentiment and think it is very kind for our long journey to be recognized with such loving statements.

The truth is…I don’t feel patient, but – instead – feel disciplined. Really, I am outraged by the wait. I have a deep sadness that my soul seems to rest in like it would a hammock: a lazy, tired sadness that I realize is accompanying me through this phase of my life. There is discipline in the fact that I refuse to follow a path that is not for us, but it’s hard to think of myself as patient because of this.

Juxtaposed with the sadness is also a joy for what will come. There seems to be a rooted truth that I have found the right place to put my next step. So, yes, there is discipline. There is a process that looks like patience, but I wouldn’t say it is patience. I would say it is tenacity, persistence, or focus.

Maybe I resist labeling myself with the word “patient” because it seems like there is an acceptance in it and I am resisting the notion that I have accepted how long this is taking. I don’t accept it. I probably never will fully accept the four plus years it will take to bring our first child home. However, my lack of acceptance doesn’t change the reality that, in order to fulfill our dreams, we have to wait. And wait some more.

We wait while people have one kid, and then they have another. We wait while our Facebook feeds and holiday cards multiply with new little people. We wait while people give us parenting advice. We wait while people tell us how we will feel when X or Y happens to/with our kids. We wait while we buy baby gifts, cuddle other people’s infants, and accept invitations to birthday parties thinking, “Adam Gabriel would have been this age” or “our Haitian son [soft match…hopefully son], still in Haiti, will be turning one that week, too.”

This isn’t to say we don’t enjoy buying baby gifts, cuddling infants, or going to kids’ birthday parties. But, I also wouldn’t describe myself as patient through it all. Instead of accepting the timeline, I make what feels like a difficult – but right – choice to keep living and loving, despite being frustrated by our own family timelines.

So thank you for calling us patient, but that word is way too generous. We are still raw, but we are choosing to live despite the pain. And that looks like patience.

I haven’t written in a little while. I think it’s because my soul feels a little bit like this photo. I am quiet. I feel mostly peaceful. I cannot see everything quite as clearly as I would like, but my gut is telling me there is a path laid out in front of me.

My soul is healing. My body is healing. I am trying not to get wrapped up in false hope as our adoption agency is quoting timelines that seem very unrealistic when compared to history and other agency quotes. I feel somewhat strained, trying to keep myself living in the moment, but I also know the past will not change and the future will come in its own time.

So, I am quiet. Not quite still, as I feel the forward momentum, but not holding on for dear life on a spinning merry-go-round either. When I hear the merry-go-round inviting me in, I have pause – if not right away, after a few moments – knowing that truth is not on the ride.

Truth is on this path: this semi-dark, rugged path – that has no definite end – is beckoning to be acknowledged for its integrity on this journey home.

I love my angel son…and in memory of him on his birthday…

I stayed in bed a little longer and cuddled with my dog.

I ate chocolate for breakfast.

I lit a candle in memory of A.G.

I read Rumi, drinking his words right off the page.

I connected with family as I walked my pup.

I ran hills because my body is strong and my spirit is stronger.

I donated my professional skills in support of education for Haitian children.

I let my dog eat the birthday party invitation for the little boy that was born a week after mine.

I talked to my fabulous friend for over an hour on the phone.

I drank wine and had good conversation with my husband.

Life is good. It takes a while for it to be good, but then you get your groove back. Not every day, but often enough. Keep going, People. We have a lot more to live.

I just thought I would write the quickest update since it has been a little while. I have been enjoying many of the things I wrote about earlier when I said I am going to do my best to embrace the life I probably wouldn’t be living if my last pregnancy had gone full term. I’ve recently made that trip to Vegas, the other trip to the golf coast, and now am waiting for some of my oldest friends to come for a long weekend.

Among other things, we will be celebrating the fact that one of my friends just received her first real job as a breast surgeon. I am obviously not a perfectionist in the kitchen, but I do like a little humor in my life, so I decided to make these cupcakes to show her how proud I am of her success, and spend a (delicious) moment celebrating her massive achievement. Heehee.

I hope you all have a bit of laughter and good friends around you right now as some of you are going through some pretty hard times. You know who you are, and please know you are on my mind. Take this post to remind yourself that it gets better. Not everyday, but in moments that will be here for you to cherish when you feel up to it. Xx

Not every day. Certainly not all day. But, I am getting my spark back. I am finding the fight in my soul again. I have energy. I am going to the track again to do 400m workouts before the sun comes up.

I am running 5ks. I am not running the fastest I’ve ever run, but I am not running the slowest either. But – regardless of speed – my self-talk is incredible. I find myself, in the last stretch of a race, feeling so beautiful and strong. I am saying, “I am powerful. Look what my body can do. Look what this body, the one that was torn up over four miscarriages…torn up over the fluctuation of too many hormones over several years…torn up over one 4-day hospital stay where I was hooked up to morphine that didn’t penetrate any pain centers while I experienced labor pains without a reward…look what this brave, beautiful body is doing today.”

I am letting you all in. Tears are streaming down my face as I write this. There is so much pain locked away, but dammit it if I don’t recover. I am going to throw it all back. I am going to help people whom experience these horrific surprises in life. I was down for a long time, and I am still fighting. Here I am, coming up for air, over and over again as the days go by.

I know a lot of people stumble upon this blog after their own struggles – many being diagnosed with some type of infertility and, often, too many miscarriages. Please let this post soak in: there is “the other side” of this pain. You will get there. You will get your fight back. Keep going and kick ass.

It seems like ages since I have felt this calm. I feel grounded in just being. Finally, there is an absence of anxiety in the blood running through my veins; there is a noticeable lack of what other times feels like liquid fire being ignited in my chest. Today, I notice the birds chirping; the lush plant material and ground coverings dripping in a symphony of greens; and the clouds hanging overhead, forming a hazy, protective barrier while letting the sun light the sky from behind them.

Nothing happened, but little pivots have unlocked this more peaceful place in me. Having another dream last night about a match in Haiti with a little boy makes me feel more steadfast and hopeful about our adoption process. News of continued, positive progress in a sick family member continues to lighten the load. 24 hours visiting with a dear friend this weekend, sharing deep conversation, two handfuls of tears, and helping each other work through some sorrows in our hearts truly felt like therapy. Then there is the new possibility of greatly altering my career path to combine my professional strengths and my soul’s calling to orphans…it is too premature to write here, but I may have such an opportunity, although I am not sure of the degree of involvement which will come to fruition…but there seems to be stirrings of newness, a shift to something more true after years of tribulations and patience.

This isn’t to say I expect an immediate, lightening-bolt change. I just sense some newness being prepared on my path. A newness, and a rightness: not an ethical or judgment-based rightness, but a truthfulness or divinity instead. I am feeling open to where the hardships have led me and where I was always supposed to go.

And for that, I am thankful today. I am lighter today. The world seems beautiful and my heart is unburdened for the first time in a long while. I hope you feel the same way today.

I just needed to write a little update because my general mood has been downtrodden and I really don’t like to live in that space. As with most things, our fear is largely unwarranted as we humans can get through whatever comes our way! We may not always like the challenges, but we will be okay anyway.

I got to spend Mother’s Day with my husband and our friends, boating with their little twin boys. It was a full sky / full sun kind of day. We relaxed, took in the wind and the waves, and enjoyed the humor of three year old boys.

Later that night, on a Sunday no less, I got a call from my adoption agency. We were told a match is being prepared for us in the “next 6-8 weeks.” !!! Now, we did expect this might happen late in 2014, but – as we cannot turn back time – this is still progress. This means we may travel to bond with our little one in 2015 if everything goes smoothly, and possibly take them home in the calendar year of 2016 if the process continues as planned.

So, the reality of mother’s day was pretty darn refreshing this year. I got to enjoy cute little kiddos (without having any real responsibility). I also received encouraging adoption progress news after 9 months of silence. Not a bad Mother’s Day at all!

I think this is always the question in mother’s minds when they have a close friend or family member struggling to add to their family if they have not struggled themselves in the same way. There sometimes is the guilt of privilege since so many moms know that it’s not always easy to get pregnant, stay pregnant, and take a beautiful child home from the hospital. I hope it’s clear that I don’t feel this guilt is warranted, but I am acknowledging that these women are compassionate and aware of an unequal playing field when it comes to what is so breezily named “family planning.”

As this is my third Mother’s Day wanting – but not having – a little one in my home, I’ll share my perspective. I cannot speak for anyone but myself and, if I have learned anything about this journey, it’s that emotionally sensitive topics like this are polarizing in opinions…and sometimes I find myself being very inconsistent in my feelings and/or reactions, so in no way can this post speak for everyone with infertility or a history of pregnancy/infant loss. But, here are my thoughts anyway, hoping to shed at least a little bit of light into this corner of the room.

I spent the first Mother’s Day I was trying to start a family pregnant. Freshly pregnant. Glowing. Oozing with joy from my secret. “Happy Mother’s Day!” I shouted to anyone who would listen. Happy, Happy Mother’s Day to all the hard working moms out there, the cuddlers, the mess-cleaners, the tear-wipers, the brave women paving the way for the new phase of my life. I couldn’t wait to share in this club, joining so many family members and friends with silly little ones running around in backyard sprinklers and holding hands crossing the street.

By the second Mother’s Day on this journey to start a family, I had survived three miscarriages. I chose the word “survived” not to be dramatic, but to remind or illustrate that there had been hardship. There had been sadness. There had even been a tragic delivery of a sweet, perfect, baby boy. It makes me weepy just thinking about that perfect boy without the heartbeat; the one whom I held with all his fingers and his toes; the one whom changed my world forever. This second Mother’s Day, I felt like a mom already.

Because I had this second trimester loss (many not knowing of the other two losses), others already thought of me as a mom, too. One dear friend sent a text out to remind many of us that our self-worth did not hinge on “how much action our collective uteri had or had not seen” which struck me as the perfect sentiment since so many of us feel so much shame when our bodies fail us in this way and, in many ways, Mother’s Day is another day to struggle internally with that shame, sadness, and confusion. The holes in our hearts are gaping open on this day.

Paradoxically, I will also add that I still had joy for those moms whom seemed to hold that title in a more “real” or legitimate way since they had brunches and crayon drawings announcing, “We love you, Mom” to prove it. There can be sadness in the midst of joy for others. There can be pain in the midst of celebration for life and all the sacrifices these wonderful women make everyday for challenging tots, tweens, and adults that will always seem young to their moms.

On this third Mother’s Day, marked tomorrow, I feel jaded. Four miscarriages and 1.5 years into international adoption, I know that this moment will pass, but I feel close to hopelessness. My “timeline peers,” as I will call them, in the Haitian adoption process, are getting soft matches (unofficial/dependent on other factors/tentative matches) with children, and I feel desperate as I, for the moment at least, am left behind again. For years now, I’ve watched women have one and then two kids while I wait, and now the adoptive moms are moving ahead too. This is all good. It’s good! I do believe that. But I don’t want to be left behind again. I don’t want to ache for my children anymore.

Interestingly enough, this is what many describe as fundamental in motherhood: the ache for your children. You want to eat them up and keep them close to you. There is an endless place in your brain focused on them even when you are sipping margaritas several hours away from them on a much-needed adult vacation. They are attached to you like nothing else. So, on Mother’s Day, I would tell the “real” moms out there that I feel like a mom too. I might not get brunch and a crayon “I love you, Mom” drawing, but an acknowledgment from friends and family of my journey fills my heart to the brim. It makes me feel validated and loved in the midst of my journey. I know one day this awkward place will be behind me, but – for Mother’s Day – I don’t pretend to know all the work that goes into caring for a child in a physical sense, but I feel I do understand your “mother heart,” that piece that is always attached to another.

Happy Mother’s Day, fellow moms, whether your children are in the sky or sitting right next to you in this world. Happy Mother’s Day to those yearning for a little one after months or years of infertility. This is one of those moments I believe in the power of intentionality. I do not say that to minimize the work and care of those mothers who need a day off from the kid chaos, but only to try and acknowledge all whom yearn for a place at the table. If you know of a “non-mom mom,” such as me, a “thinking of you” is simple enough to make her feel a little braver and more understood as she faces another non-mom day.