Two weeks ago was my due date. Baby Emmeline Faith or Cade Atticus was set to arrive, to be with our family for all the holidays. It's tough to write that, and hard to wrap my mind around.
This past year has been one of the hardest of my life. Last Halloween, I miscarried for the first time. I miscarried again in April. I was diagnosed with a combination of situational and post-partum depression. Nathan needed surgery, finances got to be impossible, and I had to move away from home. When I look at my life last October, I can't recognize what has become of it now.
It's impossible to think about my life right now and not think about everything that I have lost. But slowly, I am fighting to regain my sense of self and control of my life. While I cannot say my life is currently ideal, I am morning by morning beginning to tell myself to find one thing that is good and focus on it.
Last weekend I went back to my Kentucky home for the weekend. I saw my friends, my people, and visiting the cemetery where my baby was laid to rest in May. And it was the most healing thing I could have done.
The decision to move came quickly. Everything bad that happened the past year seemed to happen in a rush: once the ultrasounds revealed that my babies were no longer viable, it was quickly time for surgery. Then quickly time to go back to work. Too quickly it felt like it was time to stop bringing it up over and over, because we are still not a culture that knows how to respond to miscarriage.
When it was time for Nathan's surgery it went from an overnight hospital visit, to a year-long ongoing endeavor that has altered our relationship and our lives.
And when the options were gone and the only viable option was to move back to Ohio, the four weeks passed in a blur. I sold all of Jace's baby things, got rid of everything that I didn't have space or desire to move, and tried to say my goodbye's to my home.
Going back last weekend gave me time to myself in the place I identify as home, time that was spent in self-reflection, in prayer, and in healing. On Sunday I went to my home church to hear a sermon that felt as though it may have been written specifically to reach me. It was directed at those who are "going through" and reminded me that this season, this year, no matter how horrible it has been to me, is a temporary season. That the point of going through, is that eventually, you get through.
So I'm not going to pretend I have it all figured out. I'll easily admit that there are mornings I wake up dealing so poorly with depression that getting out of bed feels physically impossible. There are moments I close my eyes and curse at God for this happening. For my babies, for my mental health, for what I envisioned in life. But little by little I am healing, I am accepting what has happened, and I know that I have no choice but to get stronger as this season rages on.