Blue lights flashing, bright against the white snow, the sky dark, stars visible—although there was no time to look for them. I held my baby tight to my chest, bundled in blankets as I hurried down our driveway. His sister’s cries echoed in the otherwise quiet night, a cry of fear and confusion at our sudden disappearance. My heart was pounding, but I was outwardly calm, whispering to my little boy, “You’re ok, you’re ok,” desperate reassurance for us both.
I’ve always been a striver. I can’t pinpoint an exact event that led to this annoying quality that urges me to always do better, but I can see how it has affected so many of my relationships and decisions. As a teenager, I found myself to be awkward and unsure, but I carried a fake shield of confidence to distract me from my uncertainty about never being good enough. Though I appeared to some as being “cool” and “popular,” comments such as “He thinks you’re fat, Missy,” seriously fed into the insecurity that assured me I could never really be good enough.
It can be your best friend in whom you find comfort. Living in a beautiful, false reality that is not truly yours. You can act like the things you have been through didn’t really happen to you, and if they did they are so far distant those emotions that should be pulling on your heart strings are numbed.
Having a miscarriage after years of trying to conceive is one of the most harrowing things a mother can experience. Imagine learning a part of your soul has separated from you to combine with a piece of your partner’s soul, and they’re dancing together in your womb, blissful and happy, until some unknown and cruel circumstance disrupts the music and stops their dance. That piece of soul has no option but to return to you, but now she is different. She has changed. Her song no longer matches the rest of the soul, and so she’ll spend the rest of her life trying to find that melody again.