So let me begin this by saying, I am an emotional being.
I always have been. I grew up under the impression that it was a bad thing when I cried, and that my life would be more difficult if I allowed others to see my emotions. When I cried, I would get HORRIBLE headaches because I was trying so hard to keep the emotions in, I would actually strain myself and have these awful headaches. I hated to cry in front of other people–I was so embarrassed to let anyone see me emote at all.
But I am an emotional being. I am a passionate being. And when I met my husband nine years ago, he was the first person to tell me that it was okay for me to be passionate and emotional. After about five years of hearing him tell me that over and over again, I finally began to realize he was telling the truth. It’s okay for me to cry in front of people. It’s not a sign of weakness, it’s a sign of tenderness. And a tender heart is not something to be ashamed of.
That being said, I’ve been fairly private about matters concerning my heart. But that’s something I’m trying to learn how to change. Especially since I’m now pouring my heart out for others to read. So without further ado, I want to share a piece of my life with everyone.
This is a little piece I wrote about my life. This week marks seven years since we miscarried. I can’t believe it’s been so long, but I’m happy to say I can finally share my experience with others. I hope you feel my heart in this piece.
Never In a million years did I expect to want a child.
As a little girl, I grew up playing “house” with stuffed animals rather than baby dolls or barbies. I spent hours drawing fashion designs in notebooks while my sisters played “school teacher” or “mommy” with their baby dolls. I never dreamed of the husband and three children I would someday have. Rather, I fantasized about the position I would have as the CEO of a fortune 500 company someday–fully equipped with a power suit and a matching attitude.
So when I met my husband my junior year of college and got married a year later at the age of twenty, my mind was on business and success. Not kids.
Six months after our wedding, we decided to pack up and move. We needed to make a big change in the job department, and moving to a new city to start two businesses from the ground up seemed like a good way to make that change.
Once the move was made, something inside us clicked. We had only been married for seven short months, but we both knew we wanted a baby. We prayed about it, talked about it, and worried about it. But ultimately, God told my husband that we were supposed to get pregnant. So we started trying. And boom. First time’s the charm.
I’ve never understood why we both knew we were supposed to conceive. But my husband can tell you that God spoke directly to him the night that we conceived and told him we were supposed to do just that.
I had never really longed to have children the way my sisters did. They were both born to be mothers. They have three and four children respectively, and I’m pretty sure neither of them are finished. But I wanted that baby from the moment we conceived.
So when I started bleeding and having contractions, my heart began to break. My husband was strong for me. He held me through the whole thing. In the end, I sat on a toilet and delivered a tiny little blood clot into a pool of water, weeping with the distress of the loss, in physical agony over the pain my body had undergone.
“We’ll try again when we’re ready,” my husband said as we cried in each other’s arms.
But that day will never come. That’s the only baby I’ve ever wanted. Seven years later, and I’ve never wanted another child. That was our baby. The only one we were supposed to have.
Now, please don’t think I’m throwing myself a pity-party. Cause I’m not. I believe everything happens for a reason. And if we were supposed to conceive a child just so we could lose it, then so be it. We live in a way that we could never have lived if we had a child. In an apartment we could never have afforded. In a city we never would have considered moving to.
Everything happens for a reason.
But every year, the week before Easter, I remember the pain of that loss. Why would God have told us to get pregnant, just to turn around and take the baby away? We’ll know when we get to heaven someday, I’m sure.
I’ve now reverted back to the desires I had as a child playing “make believe.” I’m the CEO of my own business. I photograph weddings, actors, and models for a living. I write novels. I spend an infinite amount of time with just my husband.
And never in a million years can I imagine wanting a child.