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It has been a while since I have sat down to write. I have been out of the habit of writing because honestly, I have been out of the habit of reflecting. I have used the busyness of life as my excuse. When really, I have been ignoring and avoiding. 



Recently, I was with a group of women, discussing a wonderful book on emotionally healthy spirituality. In that room I realized and verbalized that I have been in a season of grieving. I probably should have had some awareness, because most days I would end up in tears at some point. I also had so much to be thankful for, so it felt like foreign territory of how to balance heartache and joy.

It was good to sit in a room with other women, each on their own complex journey and say out loud, "My heart hurts. I am so sad and so full of grief." There was freedom with those women to be present, to share a piece of my heart that I wasn't totally connected to, to cry and then to be with my emotions. 

That experience that night took a weight off my shoulders. Up until then I really had only expressed the weight of my sadness with Paul - one he carried as well. But voicing it to others has helped it not feel so heavy.

With my writing, I had been very open with my infertility and two pregnancy losses before we were finally blessed with Elijah. I have also tried to be open with my struggle to adjust to motherhood. And so, in the midst of continuing to reflect and process a multitude of emotions,  I am writing again.

When we started to try for a second child, Paul and I thought we might be signing up for another long and complex journey. And while the long part was not true, the journey has been incredibly complex.

It only took us two, TWO cycles with the fertility clinic to get pregnant with Levi. It seemed so ridiculously easy in comparison to getting to Elijah. There I was, six and a half weeks into the pregnancy, laying on the table at the fertility clinic to have an ultrasound to see if this pregnancy appeared to be viable. Accompanied by my dear friend Marin, who fittingly enough sat in this situation at six and a half weeks when I did the same ultrasound for Elijah.

The nurse puts the image onto the TV and I stare in utter amazement. I had seen enough of these ultrasounds to feel like I knew exactly what I was looking at. But I needed to hear it verbalized. Not just one sac, not just one heartbeat, but two. We were having twins. Marin and I lock eyes, and then we just start giggling. And giggling turns into hysterical laughter. I was having twins.

I hear the nurse tell me that one sac is smaller than the other, one heartbeat slower than the other - but there could be more than one explanation for this. So I get my hopes up for the next two weeks. I am scared and excited and thrilled and nervous. Two weeks later, back at the office, back on the table - looking up to that familiar screen. One strong heartbeat. Only one.

I am devastated, and scared, confused and heartbroken.

Three weeks later, on a blustery October Saturday morning, I feel a familiar twinge. Cramping. And in the bathroom, a familiar sight. Blood. I've been down this path more than once. I am losing not one, but two babies. I know it, because this is my reality. This is what happens to me. I am sobbing in Paul's arms. I am angry. I must be miscarrying both babies. I remember Elijah trying to comfort me. I remember thinking, God, I cannot do this again. 

The next day, the bleeding stops and I pray so fervently for this life. On Monday, in another Doctor's office I hear a strong and fierce heartbeat. My baby is still there, my baby is a fighter.

And so for the next 7 months I focus on this child growing inside of me and try not to think of the child lost. I want to hold this baby, to name him or her, to believe that this will happen for me and Paul. And on May 13th, just after midnight, with only 15 minutes of pushing, we meet our sweet baby boy - Levi Daniel.

Joy and Grief become mingled. With every sweet moment with Levi I am left with this feeling that I am missing another child. Another sweet cry, or another sweet roaming hand, another sweet smile, or another sweet laugh. I cry with Paul because I want that baby. I want both my babies. I am haunted more by this loss, because of the tangible child that I hold every day.

And so here I am. With time, and conversation, and prayer, and writing - my grief slowly begins to lift. The weight is always there, but doesn't feel as burdensome when shared with those around me.

Thank you for journeying with me in the many different ways. This life is not meant to be lived in isolation, these experiences to be carried alone. If you need someone to walk alongside you, do not hesitate to reach out.