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I was that girl
The girl you saw with the children that looked as young as her
The girl who danced on the edge of propriety and the abyss
The girl who stood in lines for the food, clothes, shelter that were beyond her reach
I was that girl
The girl who knew the feel of bare knuckles rapping against her skull
And the sting of a man’s hands pressed around her neck
I was that girl
Who knew what it was to fear that day, that instance, that whisper of a moment
Would be the last time she saw this life
I was that girl
And I treasure that girl
In her innocence, I see what I’ve learned
In her bruises, I see what I’ve withstood
In her limitations, I see what I’ve overcome
I was that girl. I am this woman.
There, I said it. That phrase repels me, “My embryo transfer failed.” Every word in that sentence burns with anger, sadness, resentment, and grief. That’s not what was supposed to happen. It was supposed to work, just like it did last time. I am supposed to be feeling nauseous and bloated and, well, pregnant. But I am not. I am not pregnant. I am grieving. A grief so painful that I walk around feeling like a raw, exposed nerve. Just writing this, my eyes well with tears, and the pain is so visceral, it is like I am back on...
It was probably too early to tell, I thought, as I sat on the toilet and peed on another pregnancy test. I hadn’t missed my period yet, but the early test promised results “six days sooner” than my missed period. To be honest, I had spent an embarrassing amount of money on pregnancy tests over the last few months. But I needed answers. I needed to know. These little pink lines would tell me our future. See, my husband and I had lost our first baby a few months before. It had been a whirlwind of emotions from the beginning....
I am the daughter of a pastor. I grew up considering our church a second home. My siblings and I were ushered into the church doors just about every time they were open and even when they weren’t. I attended all the camps and conventions. I went to youth group and Sunday School. I graduated from a Christian university where I majored in Christian ministries. I married a pastor. And I don’t know how to pray. I used to, but then my mom died. Oh, how I prayed for her to win her battle with cancer. I prayed with an...
I hate stereotypical mother-in-law jokes and memes because my husband’s mom was one of my favorite people in this world. Always the life of the party, she quickly embraced me as part of her family, warmly sharing her traditions, recipes, and games. Normally, she was an excellent gift giver—for example, she noticed I traveled with toiletries in random baggies, so for my birthday she got me a quality, hang-up travel kit that’s lasted more than a decade, and she even filled it with fun-sized versions of my favorite products. Nevertheless, in the early years of our marriage, she suggested a...
“You are not going to feel like this forever.” I looked into the eyes of my grief therapist and found empathy and even saw a tear reflecting in the corner of her eye. I wanted so badly to believe her. But I couldn’t. Not then. I looked down at the unraveling on the wrist of my navy blue sweater. The same sweater I wore yesterday. The one I picked up from the corner of my bedroom floor and that was probably wrinkled. I didn’t care. It represented my life right now. Unmotivated. Unraveling. RELATED: Don’t Take Your Mom For Granted—I’d Give...
My dad is dead. I’ve repeated these words to myself hundreds of times in the days since his passing, but it doesn’t feel any more probable to me now than it did when I said them for the very first time. The day before my dad died, he was standing in my dining room, talking and laughing. We were confirming plans for him to babysit my daughter, and he was headed to my sister’s house to work on her farm. He was taking my grandparents on vacation the following week. My dad was so very much alive, as alive as...
We visited my grandmother’s gravesite today. As I spoke to her, my daughter chimed in, “But, Mama, she can’t hear you. That’s just a stone and a picture of her. She’s in the sky now.” “That’s right, baby girl, she is in Heaven. But do you remember what I told you about Heaven?” I could tell she was thinking about it and trying to recall previous conversations we’ve had. RELATED: Some of the Best Grandmas Live in Heaven Like on that rainy Saturday afternoon when we turned up the country music and broke out into a dance party in the...
Today is my birthday. I’ve had 42 of them since the last one I celebrated with my mom. She died when I was 12 years old. Back then, she would spend the day in our kitchen making a birthday cake just for me. Sometimes there would be a party with family and friends, and other times it was just the five of us. But I was always celebrated and made to feel special. And she was at the center of it all. Just like for 12 years, she was the center of my world. I had a good birthday today....
I cannot find the words to properly explain the joy you feel when you finally see the word “pregnant” show up on that little blue test. I cannot find the words to properly explain the gratitude and pride felt in watching your body change so quickly–all to provide a proper home to grow human life inside you. I cannot find the words to properly describe the giddiness in having not just one, but two little buddies with you always–to talk to, sing to, and dance around with. I cannot find the words to properly explain the grief in losing first...
I stand there in the pawn shop with tears welling up to the brink of spilling over onto my cheeks. We’d found the perfect gift for our 13-year-old boy. A starter guitar. Cool looking, electric, and red. It’s perfect, even with a few imperfections. It’s exactly what a 13-year-old boy might dream of. It gives him the cool-dude image, but being gently used is reasonable for a teenager that at any moment could decide it’s not his thing anymore and tuck that guitar into a corner to never to be seen again. And as a parental bonus—an amp with volume...