Just Stopping By pt. 1

Just stopping by to let you know I feel it. The peace that surpasses all understanding. The peace that allows presence. The peace that becomes a state of being.

Looking back, it’s been almost two years exactly. I still remember the feeling in my chest as the realization hit. I remember the weight of the duffle bag in my hand, the back of the ambulance, the beep of the monitors. I remember the taste of cold McDonalds the next morning and Aspen’s cotton sheets and the deafening silence.

I remember the loneliness. The panic that lived in my chest daily. The pleading prayers that rang in the back of my mind.

There were some Trader Joe’s staples I pretty much lived on, the only things I could convince my wired body to eat. I still shudder when I see them while I grocery shop, the thought of eating them again a visceral trigger for a time when I didn't know how I was going to make it through.

I was 9 months pregnant, about to meet the life that had been growing since the September before. I had lived in this bubble of blind faith up until that point. I had chosen life even though it meant the end to the life I had been building for myself. Even though I wasn’t in the place to make that decision. Even though everything felt so unknown.

After that night, I thought for the first time, maybe I had made a mistake. Maybe things weren't all working out for good. Maybe I had actually just blown my life up.

I want to say that feeling went away after I held Roman for the first time. I had heard from so many parents that everything made sense once they saw their child’s face. I’ve always said I would treat this journal as a 2am corner booth at the dive bar and in keeping that promise, I will continue to be completely honest with you.

That feeling didn't disappear when Roman was born. It didn't disappear when he called me mama for the first time or when we celebrated his first birthday or when he took his first steps. Having Roman didn’t solve all my problems and it certainly didn't make my life suddenly make sense. The lurking sense that I had made a profound mistake followed me into this year.

I now understand it as a state of mourning, one that is rarely shared openly in the light of day.

Maybe for some parents they fall completely in love instantly and there’s no where to go from there. I certainly loved Roman from the moment I met him but that love has also grown over time. At first it felt like wonder and curiosity. Then joy mixed with fear and apprehension. Then it felt a bit like a jail cell. That my love and bond with him shackled me to a level of servitude that left no room for me. Without a partner pouring into me and helping carry the load, I felt like a cup with a crack at the bottom, continuously pouring out. Continuously empty.

I felt guilt about that too.

I have a profound and miraculous connection to our Creator. My life is lived as a prayer, pretty much from the moment I wake up until I drift off at night. My conversations with God range from what I’m eating for the day to honest and raw accounts of my fear and resentment and sense of not-enoughness. With this intimate relationship with God, shouldn’t I be pouring from an overflowing cup? Shouldn’t that be enough?

Well, as much as God was curating a masterful mosaic out of my brokenness, it still felt like emptiness. And fear. and profound, profound loneliness.

And more than anything, it felt like mourning. A deep molasses of grief that had seeped into the foundational cracks of my new life.

I was mourning my freedom, my sense of expression. My body. My home. My simple ability to walk outside. All different. All gone. All laid to rest.

I was mourning the time I didn't know I had before I became a mother. Everything I was capable of and had no concept of. Becoming a mother painted such a clear picture of just how much potential and freedom and time I had before I gave birth and just how trapped I was in my own mind - that I couldn’t see it until it was too late.

Beyond everything else, I was mourning the picture of motherhood that was no longer a reality. The motherhood that comes from creating life out of a loving partnership. A motherhood of devotion and support. A motherhood that wasn't pulled between work and bills and a load of responsibility that felt like a Thanksgiving turkey carried on a paper plate.

This last season was the hardest yet. Roman hit a sleep regression in November and the sense of balance I felt evaporated. The lack of sleep made work feel impossible and my logical brain worked as if it was enveloped in fog. Rather than living my life, I felt like a third person operator trying to imagine how I would live and act if everything wasn’t turned upside down.

He had also rapidly grown into his own person, with strong wants and dislikes but no language to express them. Everyday felt like a combination of screaming and chaos and constantly cleaning up one unimaginable disaster after another. I felt overwhelmed from the moment we woke up until the moment I went to bed.

The days rolled into one another. Wake up, nurse, change, bath, breakfast, walk the dog, greet the nanny, shower, change, work, home, meeting, play, walk, dinner, bath, pajamas, nurse, bedtime, catch up, notes, spreadsheets, strategies, brush teeth, did I eat?, drink water?, shower, clean, dishes, mail, bills, bed at midnight, wake up at 2, wake up at 4, wake up at 6 repeat repeat repeat.

I didn’t recognize myself in the mirror (still don’t), didn’t care what I ate or drank or wore.

That molasses rose from the cracks higher than ever. I love him I love him I love him. BUT. maybe. I had made a huge mistake.

Guilt.

Maybe, life wasn’t going to get better.

Guilt.

Maybe, motherhood and the life I wanted sat on opposite sides.

Guilt.

Maybe, this was it.

Maybe, I would always feel pulled in between.

Maybe, my back would never heal and the stress would never lift and I would never recognize myself in the mirror again.

Maybe, this was the real sacrifice of motherhood. Half your life given to another. Your life now half lived.

Forever. Half of yourself. Forever. In between. Forever. Wading through molasses.

Maybe. This was it.

Maybe.

To be continued…