Often, when reading something online, whether it be a blog or instagram caption, I’ve noticed the most vulnerable posts are usually written post traumatic event or after a difficult situation has been resolved, or at least feels less raw. I really never thought much of it, as it makes complete sense that when going through something difficult, writing a hopeful, romantic, encouraging blog about it is likely the last thing on your mind. It makes total sense. People need to process. We need to experience before we can articulate.
However, for me anyway, often it seems we’re waiting to write or share an experience because we’re not comfortable with the vulnerability we’re swimming in when the story hasn’t been wrapped up nicely with a wholesome, thoughtful ending. What’s easier to share? “This is how I’m feeling, I’m not okay.” Or: “I wasn’t feeling well or doing okay, but I am now so I’ll share how it was hard but thankfully I’m not there anymore!” Of course the second is much more comfortable! To write and to read, really. And it’s not that it’s wrong to share the latter in place of the former. Over sharing is real. Boundaries are real. It’s more just for me, I often am only sharing the latter because in my perfectionist and anxiety-laden tendencies, the former seems far too intimate, vulnerable and downright embarrassing. I’d much rather tell you about the tough stuff when the stuff is way less tough.
So with that, I’ve decided to get over myself and write from the middle, right in the thick of the toughest year or my life. In the past 12 months I’ve lost three babies (two miscarriages) and after the second loss found out my blood glucose was over 500 and had to rush back to urgent care to receive fluids through an IV and talk through a diabetes diagnosis. It’s been a week since I found out. The bleeding has stopped. After medication and a changed diet, my blood sugar numbers are down. And now I’m in the middle of the processing of it all. I’m on the verge of tears at any given moment. I’m also absolutely okay at any other. I’m halfway across the country from my family. I’m on year two of marriage, which is honestly so wonderful and beautiful and also so hard. I’m learning and growing and fine and devastated. I have a deep, aching desire to hold my babies that I’ll never get to meet this side of heaven. I have true hope and joy that they’re with our Father and they’ll never experience sin or pain. I have a yearning to try and be a mama again, and an all-consuming fear and dread of getting pregnant with the knowledge of the loss I could experience. My husband is coping his way. I am coping in my own. We are so in love and so happy, and so sad and so heavy.
That’s it, really, right now. I’m hurting and confused and broken and okay.
God is good. But I’ve had a tough time really leaning into Him and that truth lately.
There’s no pretty ending for this story yet. I sit with the knowledge that my arms are empty and that I could get pregnant one day and end up with empty arms again. With Jesus there’s always hope, and even though my heart is having difficulty abiding in that hope, right now I’m still choosing to believe it’s available to me in the middle of the pain and the fear and this unfinished story.
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