Self Portrait

I was inspired by some of the photographers I admire to pursue the art of the self portrait this week. I feel like there are new developments in the person I am, and I feel like the only thing to do is capture it. Creating this portrait then inspired me to write, something I have felt less than inclined to do in the past year. Somehow, this photograph helped me decide to share.

Ryan and I have not been vocal about the pursuit of living children since Mason died. The reason for this is because I decided I was finished being pregnant then. For about a year, we were sure that I never wanted to be pregnant again and our family would thereon out be grown with adoption. 

However, an epiphany came to me in March of last year. I felt peace wash over me and a message that praying and believing that I could carry a living child was allowed. So, we began praying and believing. 

I chose not to share this then because I always carry this pressure that outsiders would think that a living child would "fix" our grief, that a living child is all we sought. We don't need that kind of projection on our choices, nor judgment for trying to conceive. The testimony I want to have all of my life is that our babies aren't the end goal- Jesus is. Even in deep pain, we still have a Good Father. I've wanted to continue to show that life can be abundant even without living children. Because it can and will. 

At risk of oversharing, I was extremely fertile when our babies were conceived. Every time, on the first cycle. We were extremely cautious after Mason. So, we believed that since Ryan came back in September, I'd be six months pregnant by now. A friend joked that at the homecoming she wanted to jump in front of me and intercept my fertility, given my history he'd look me in the eyes and it would be over. It made me hopeful and a bit cocky.

But here we are, six months and some very strange cycles later. I saw my doctor this week, with a late end of cycle and 4 negative tests. A blood test confirmed negative, but he is pretty confident that I'm not ovulating for whatever reason. I will wait to begin the next cycle and try Letrozole.

On the grand scale of infertility, I know this is not comparable. I know it is six months (two of which were kind of expected) and not six years. I hope my friends struggling so long with infertility know that I am aware that this is short, fixable, and merely a toe-dip in your world. 

But I am wrecked. I feel broken where I once was sure my body did its "job". As a woman, I feel foreign to myself and angry. I'm shocked at best. Ryan is away for perhaps another month, and the loneliness (even though I've been surrounded by sweet friends) is real. I can't truly explain exactly how I feel with words, and so that's where my self portrait came in. 

I wanted something to do with my hands, and the only obvious thing was the piece of needlework. I chose colors for a baby blanket in August and started on it the very day Ryan came home. It was a tangible thing to represent our belief and hope- this is being made intentionally. It will be used for the next baby in our home. 

I still believe that, but I don't know when or how. I never did. Another friend mentioned to me this week that after loss we still have this false sense of control, and it's true. I thought I even had control over when another child would be placed in our arms. 

That's why I chose this shot. There are a few obvious technical mistakes and I still love it. I felt everything was controlled when I sat down but you can see the yarn coming unraveled by the chair and my eyes followed a car driving past the house as I tried to gather it all back together. I lost focus on what was happening, and created a true-to-me self portrait. I feel alien from the moment this week, navigating through this new unraveling in my heart. 

That is where we are. Where I am. I choose transparency again, in hopes of framing how we'd like to be reacted to in this part of our journey. Please don't offer any self cures or suggest what route you believe should be taken. We do have plans for adoption, but that would require some stability for our family- at least knowing we'd be in the same state for longer than 6 months. We eat healthy enough. I track my body well. I use oils and no unsafe medications. We don't want a surrogate. We aren't sharing to seek the counsel and solutions we know many others may have, we are seeking support and prayer in the wait. Please, don't be dismissive.

As always, we are still so thankful. While this week has revealed some new layers of grief, we know that we are loved. I also know that recently I may have been defensive at kind comments that imply you're praying for our family to grow, and for that I apologize. It's truly appreciated. We have, however, come to pray with a "yes and amen." We know that our plans don't always match His ways and so we seek both- a living child and the peace to live with a "not right now." 

In Defense of Shutting Up

It has been 8 months between my last post and this one. I've had a few reasons for not blogging- some of them intentional and some of them beyond my control. Either way, I feel so relieved to sit down and write about the things I've been reflecting on, even if it ends up being a word vomit.

Following Mason's due date, life became very overwhelming. Ryan and I had a few weeks in November to bond with each other and connect before he would deploy. Those weeks felt like hours and before we knew it, he was slipping his wedding ring off into my hand and joining formation to march out of the gym. I was suddenly in uncharted territory and it has taken me seven months to really get a good handle on navigating life and grief without my partner within tangible reach. I'll write more about that soon.
We watched people we love, people we consider to be reasonable, people we've come to expect some perspective from... come completely undone in the face of the election. That was exhausting- trying to avoid all politics and just care for our own hearts when many of the people we looked to to help cultivate a gentle atmosphere were caught up in those politics. I couldn't do anything but sit quietly and observe the chaos. This was the beginning of my writing break.

All three birthdays have passed for our babies. January 5th was our Baby Errol's, it came and went as quietly as he did. Mason turned one on May 19th. And Eden turned two Monday June 26th. I feel that the second year for Eden was harder than the first, but the timeline has been complicated as her second year was Errol and Mason's first.
Either way, this year was harder than the last. It's no secret that a miscarriage is societally seen as "less" than a full term neonatal death. There has been a stark contrast between the kind of support and love we received when we consider that we've lost three children. That's what they are to us. Our babies. And it felt like to some, they were not. That because we haven't shared Mason's face, he must not have one. That because we never even held a Baby Errol, he really wasn't here. And that is a shitty thing to feel. People have continued to tell us they always think of us and Eden. Conveniently excluded are our other two- whom Ryan and I call "the boys". Finding a way to build legacies for babies others like to pretend didn't exist is exhausting. Continuing on with life-long grief while outsiders would believe that there's a time limit is also exhausting.

It has also been a year that made the question "do you have any kids?" harder to answer than before. We don't know what to say anymore. If we say yes, then answer the questions that follow honestly... we usually walk away from some awful platitude that just hurts. We'll never deny our babies, but we've learned to skirt the topic with strangers and try to ease into it gently with new friends so they may understand first how we'd like to be treated after telling our story to them.

This blog kind of got out of control. Going viral after Eden's identity theft opened our lives to scrutiny that our hearts couldn't handle. I disabled comments of course, but emails kept coming. I was accused of killing my children, of getting pregnant on purpose to lose a child. Ugly things have been said in the face of our decision to be transparent with our marriage and with parenthood and with grief. I don't want my babies memories immediately associated with what happened to us, and I definitely don't want them associated with such awful accusations.
It is also hard to gather your thoughts with people watching (or reading). When you're vocal about your experience and something relevant to that experience or something you've said before (say a pregnancy announcement as an example), people look to you for your initial reactions so they may decide if you are gracious or bitter.
SO I felt I just needed to shut up for a while. The internet has brought us to some of the most supportive and loving friends, but it is not always a safe place for the grieving mother and father.

Then again, neither is everyday life.
I've grown so tired of being asked when we'll have another baby. HEY my husband is deployed so it won't be today. What if we don't want to have another baby?
The problem is, it makes people uncomfortable to call me a mom or Ryan a dad as long as we have no living children. It makes me question our parenthood myself. I feel invisible. I feel taunted.
"You can have mine!" No, I can't.
"I could choke them." Please, don't.
And so when I am in a room full of mothers, my anxiety manifests in the form of believing that I have nothing to offer to the conversation. If I do offer something, it might shut the conversation down or worse, I very well may walk away from it being told my offering was not welcome or relevant because I am not nor will I ever be like them.

This anxiety evolved in my mind... when I did want to sit down and write and share, I couldn't. I physically could not get the words out and I had begun to believe that it didn't matter anyway. I was paralyzed at the thought of being vulnerable and pouring my heart out for none of it to ultimately matter.

I have been given my circle though, my own mom group. I was able to begin to cultivate friendships with other moms- some of them also having walked through unspeakable loss- where instead of feeling contagious I've been asked to keep children overnight. Where I can speak freely as a mother and a woman and no one questions whether they might value what I have to say. They make me a spiritual mom of their children and that kind of friendship is worth more than gold. I think being quiet with the world to "find" those people was needed.

Another thing I've been able to do since I've taken this time off is become a certified doula in birth & bereavement. In December I had the thought that I should, but I told the Lord he would have to be louder if that were an avenue I needed to pursue. He would up yelling by February and so I registered with StillBirthday. I turned in my final tasks last week. I think it'll add a lot to my presence at bereavement births as a photographer and with that being such a big "why" for me... it just feels so good to have done this. I'll be overhauling my business in the next few months to focus more on births and doula services.
In 6 months, I had written a whole paragraph for a book. It was not coming easily and it felt forced. I was deleting everything. So I put that down at the same time I started my doula course. I feel like in the next few weeks I'll be able to pick it back up again as well.

Really, taking this time to be quiet has been so needed in my grief. Learning to be alone and recharge and care for my heart and mind is an important step in healing that I never expected. I had been self medicating with busy-ness and oversharing and so when I finally shut up and cleared my schedule to just be alone, it hurt. It was like coming down off a high. I didn't know what to do with myself. Many things I'd been keeping at arms length entered my soul and I broke. I had no where to look but upward and nothing outward to work on... that meant working inward.
So me and God have had it out these past few months. When our relationship was pretty and I was hashtag blessed, I never had to question Him. But in the wake of loss and confusion, I still didn't want to question or doubt. I spent so much time just "yes and amen"-ing even when I needed to fuss that I did not fully confront the questions and anger when they arose. I won't go into too many details, but the quietness and down time allowed for me to seek the face of the Savior and discover undeniable truths for my broken heart. While it was hard, I can still say it was good. It's important to work out the kinks in faith every once in a while or else, is it really faith?

All of that to say I'm back to writing and I'm glad. If none of it does ultimately matter to anyone else, it matters to me. It's a part of my healing. It's for me. Hopefully it points to the Lord in suffering. Hopefully it gives hope of abundantly blessed life after loss even without living children. Hopefully it inspires someone or just makes them feel something. If none of that happens though, it inspires me. I like to talk about this life and this grief and all the love I have for my babies.
I had to shut up for a while to understand why and who for. Because it matters to me. For me.

To the Mama Expecting Bereavement

Dear Bereaved Mother-in-Waiting,

"Put one foot in front of the other."

That use to sound like something you'd say to encourage people, but now it is an order. It's a reminder.

Each of your organs are cinder blocks, making every step heavier and making it almost impossible to scoot without stumbling.

Your brain is pulling away from gravity- stretched far above treetops, "head in the clouds". Your heart is in your feet, appropriately broken to fit in the different sides. There's suddenly a mile between your vocal cords and your tongue- good luck saying what you need. 

How has your body become so rearranged? How come no one can see it from the outside?

I know where you are. You are in anticipatory grief for the child in your womb. You feel almost alone on this journey. And lost. Every moment is another that putting one foot in front of the other is an impossible request to make of you.

Waiting to lose is bad. I can't say that it is the worst. I've never truly lost before now. I've witnessed others' sudden and unexpected loss, I've witnessed others' peaceful letting-go. But I've never witnessed firsthand another getting prepared for the birth and death of someone they love until myself.

Have you? Are you no stranger to loss?

If you aren't, I'm afraid this will still be a bit different. Because every loss is different.
And my stumbling upon this new normal will look so much different from yours. We are creating together a beautiful community of different hurts that may only live until we are gone, so that there is room in the space for the next different hurts.


Call this space -baby loss- "Alaska". Imagine the dreams we'd had for our babies prior to learning about life-limiting or fatal diagnoses in another space called "Jamaica".

Some of us arrive to Alaska by taking the long way around- driving from peninsular Florida through the continental US and then through Canada. Perhaps we barely knew we were pregnant, the pee may still be wet on the stick when we learn that our babes have a different fate than we'd hoped. So starting from 8 weeks gestation, we begin to carry the burden of waiting on losing. And we carry it the whole way to birth. The climate changes every few hundred miles (some days are colder than others in anticipatory loss), and we have to stop often for gas (someone please pour encouragement into me). But when we finally arrive to Alaska, we've still got some sweet memories of the trip there.

Some of us get there by boat. We hop on our own glacier bound titanic midway through pregnancy. We had smooth sailing through the first and second trimester but waters became rough at a nerve-wrecking diagnosis appointment. We just gave our voyage a name we'd picked out dependent on its gender ultrasound... and now we must accept that the voyage will end in Alaska, when we arrive there. We still have a little time to make these next days (months) count, so immediately every sunset on the water becomes more precious.

Then some of us arrive by plane. In the home stretch of our pregnancies, we feel irregular kicking patterns and just think we have lazy babies. So we visit doctors and go to specialists and learn that something has gone terribly wrong and we are days away from loss. It only takes a few hours to fly to Alaska from where we are. We don't have time to pack, we don't have time to wait in line for a Cinnabon.. We check in and hop on for a turbulent ride, hoping for a moment to look out the window and gather that everything will change once we land, thankful for ignorance before this point.


We all get to the same Alaska, but it looks different to each of us because of the way we got there. I can't tell you exactly how Alaska is going to look to you. We can all agree on one thing though: it is cold and it isn't the place we wanted to be.


You are wishing for the days before you knew what you're carrying with your baby: before you knew all the uncertainty that you were oblivious to before this point. Certain Uncertainty? You wish you didn't have that.

You are wishing for the days where you were planning for Jamaica. When the biggest worries you had were over diaper brands, nursery themes, feeding options, parenting styles. You are watching all the other expectant mothers in Jamaica. You're glad for them, you're sad for you.


While you're on the way to and in Alaska, the mothers on the way to and in Jamaica are going to try to reach out to you. They may not be able to know what you're going through, but they can certainly empathize- easier than most can. It hits close to home when one is looking at her friends in Alaska while she's in Jamaica.
Let them, mama. Our small village waiting for you in Alaska is support, but you will never have enough. Don't push them away if they just want to love on you.

Sometimes a woman in Jamaica will assume that, being in Alaska, you can be nothing but jealous and bitter. You know better, though. Love that mother from a distance. Find comfort in praying that that mother will never TRULY know how you feel- pray she will never need to visit Alaska.

Sometimes a woman who looks like she's always been in Jamaica will surprise you, she's visited Alaska too. One day you may be in her shoes. One day you may not. Just know she's been in yours.

You're still expecting. You're still on the way to Alaska, and there will be so much struggle to enjoy the ride. If you are driving, you're carsick. If you're sailing, your boat is steadily sinking. If you're flying, its on a small plane and through thunderstorms. And on top of it all, there is no map to our Alaska. We are wandering, on a certain path.

It's going to be hard. But I urge you, mama... Rebuke the end of your trip until it comes. Speak life into your baby, speak life into your self.

Don't give up, don't have a passive trip. Tell people about your journey.

When you meet a stranger along the way, you don't have to let them think you're on your way to Jamaica just so they aren't uncomfortable.

And then, somedays, if you want to let the trip happen while you just rest, I urge you to do that too.
Stay in bed, cry, holler, and cuss.

Feel what you need to feel. Know that your feelings are OK.
If you are glad- don't let anyone make you think you should be sad.
If you are sad- don't let anyone make you think you should be glad.


You're expecting a baby. Your baby is a blessing! Your sick baby is a blessing! Your broken baby is a blessing! Your dying baby is a blessing!

You're expecting to be a bereaved mother. Grief, in its own way, is also a blessing. You do NOT have to view it that way. But waiting for it will give you a different outlook on yourself, on your baby, and on life.


When you get to Alaska, it's okay to be disappointed. It's okay to be angry. This is not the trip you planned. This is not Jamaica. And when you get here, that's when you'll realize you didn't pack a jacket.

You can't pack anything, actually. Nothing ample enough to protect yourself from the cold weather you're facing. Remember you were packing for Jamaica when this trip went the other way.
Though you are expecting it, you don't know exactly what kind of grief awaits you in Alaska.

In Alaska, you will be babylost. And I didn't know until I arrived here that the pain is a new one, different and more amplified. I want to warn you of that.

This post will not ease it, your family will not ease it, your friends will not ease it. They will love on you (yes, even more than they are right now) but they will never be able to put your baby back in your arms. And I'm sorry to know that.

I'm sorry that you are terrified. I'm sorry that you cannot turn around and just stay home. I'm sorry that we aren't going to Jamaica this time.

There will still be an element of beauty. Alaska is still a nice place to see. It is still a new place. You will still be a mother! Don't let anyone ever tell you any different. In your grief, you will be THE mother. How amazing you will be to parent a baby you can no longer see.

But I want you to know that once you arrive, you will long for the days when you were just waiting for it, just like you now long for the days when you knew you were going to certainly bring home a healthy and happy baby to protect and love.


I know you are heavy. I know that in addition to all you're carrying with your baby, your own self is becoming tough to pull. But you can do it. I believe our babies get to choose us. Your baby picked you, mama. Your baby knows you can finish the journey it was sent to you for. Your baby knows you can somehow get all the way to Alaska, no matter how far or close it seems.

Just put one foot in front of the other.