I surrendered into the fetal position on the guest room bed. Sobbing at the defeat I felt as a woman not able to produce life through my body. My husband gently held me without trying to take away my feelings of failure.
Five times in three years: expansion, miscarriage, contraction, healing, waiting. And then willing the courage and hope to begin the cycle again.
The toll on my body and my psyche felt unfair and mean.
As an athlete, my body had served me well. It fed my pride, created my purpose, added an identity that garnered attention and praise. I believed my body to be invincible.
It never occurred to me that it would fail to accomplish what most of nature is easily capable of.
So much energy was spent in time, money, tears, alternative methods, inner debates with myself, and outer debates with my husband. My competitive nature would not let me stop trying.
Until one day, after another tearful confession of loss, my friend had the courage to ask,
“Do you want to be pregnant or do you want to be a mother?”
It was a question that woke me from my trance of repeating the same formula yet continuing to expect different results.
Her question, coupled with my surrender, opened space for us to consider possibilities my ego and pride had refused to entertain.
The adoption process became an alternative pregnancy; at times exciting and hopeful, with many uncomfortable and sleepless nights before his birth.
Moving through the fear and self judgement of being different in this parental arena, humbly graced me greater freedom and self-love. My fear of people’s odd questions (what does his ‘real’ mother look like?) has been tempered by the fact that he looks very much like my husband.
My desire to be a mother and the experience of loving, guiding and witnessing my sons growth far outweighs the lack of DNA we share.
Having walked through the dark abyss of infertility, I now understand on a deeper level my strength as a woman both emotionally and physically from this journey. It has become a touchstone to any challenge that arises. And so far, nothing has come close to the level of satisfaction and joy (and challenge and frustration) that I experience as a mother.
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