And then you start sliding.



You are grasping for anything to hold on to – internet articles, research, twinges in your stomach, personal stories delicately told by others who can only pretend to have walked where you walk.

You wonder how you got here – how one thing, result, emotion knocks the wind out of you over and over; leaving you to wonder if you are brave enough or physically able enough to get up and take it again.

Fighting bitterly with the voice in your head questioning your every move. Paralyzed by fear. Is it worth it? Do you want to keep feeling this way? Are you strong enough?


Down you go.

Desperately grasping on to “what ifs” as variables to change for the next time. Attempting to pinpoint what went wrong. Dissecting everything you ate, how you worked out, your deodorant, nail polish, tampons, sleep schedule. The answer has to be in here somewhere. Keep looking or you’ll fall down even further. Delicately picking apart each part of your life is what is keeping your hope alive.

“It’s science. It’s easy. Even teenagers can figure it out. Try this. Try that. Take this pill. Spread your legs. Pee in this cup. It won’t hurt that bad. Calm down, you’re too tight. Come back in a month.”



I’m afraid I’m slipping down to where there is no light. The further I fall and the more my face is muddied with hope lost, blinding me from receiving any good news, the more I lose sight of the potential gift on the other side.

Innocence lost. Babies not conceived by a kiss in the night, but rather careful examination and calculation of the schedule of our internal organs.

Where is the answer? Jesus, I need the light. If you will not let me see the light, at least let me feel it, or feel You. I am tired of slipping. I am tired of feeling along in this hole. Pull me out. The darkness is more than I can bear.


but you…

“Write it down,” they say, “You’ll want to remember your story.”

Oh, my sweet one, the journey to hold you in my arms is one I don’t think I will be able to easily forget. Blood work, tests, counting to 14 and then back down to 1, doctor’s appointments to discuss things so intimate only a husband and wife should mention so candidly.

But you. You are already known. You are already spoken for. Nothing is hidden from the One who created you. There are no “what ifs,” only the “one day.”

Pills, no carbs, plenty of water, choking down 12 vitamins each day, note-taking, researching.

But you. You are already refining me – something I hear so often about parenthood. “You learn to love something more than yourself,” they say. Is it possible that you, not even conceived, are already teaching me this? Already teaching me that anything so precious is worth waiting for? Anything so beautiful is worth dying to your fear of disappointments, sticks with only one pink line, symptoms that you trick yourself to feel – a reassurance that yes, it could happen to you.

But you. You are worth the research, the sleepless nights, the tears that come unwelcomed. The questions, the hope deferred, the longing. The empty arms, the racing brain, the feeling I can only relate to others as starving, but being unable to eat.

Because, you see, sweet one, I was made to be your momma. Something inside me has made that so clear. Every time I want to run, give up, or succumb to fear or disappointment that knocks the wind out of me, I am brought back to remember the dreams I have seen you in and the flicker inside of me that still believes that you are coming. Soon.

I feel weak, faithless, anxious, and uncertain. I might lose my way, hair, sleep, and direction, but I am gaining (weight), hope, patience, and an immeasurable amount of love for you. My soul longs for resolution, for two pink lines, for answers, but will wait.

For you.