Domenica Hoenig

To my sweet, soul child,

I've thought about you, imagined you, dreamed about you, planned for you, prayed for you, and wanted you. But none of these things were powerful enough to overcome higher reasons of you not being able to come to me.

I've wanted the blessing of being your mother my entire life. As far as I can remember, I looked forward to pregnancy, birth, and having a child that resembled both myself and your father. I wanted to raise you with all the love, happiness, support, acceptance, understanding, and everythingelse you could possibly need.

I always imagined the memories we would make, the laughs we would have, and sometimes the tears we would share. I’ve had dreams of embracing you. The hugs made me feel whole. The dreams felt so real that I would wake up looking for you.  I know what you look like, but only from a very young age. You always looked the same in the dreams, with minor differences. You were meant to exist. I cannot explain why you do not, and will not.

You should exist. You have your own bedroom, your own bathroom, a room for play, a yard, a car to carry your stuff from infancy to childhood sports. You have clothing to wear (mostly mine from when I was a baby). You have a loving home and family.  I have books on pregnancy. I've been waiting for you my entire adult life.

Once, you attempted to come, but now I understand why you could not stay. You would have been 21 right now. I will never forget the miscarriage and the magnitude of that loss.

I've heard the sounds you make while breast feeding, the feelings I had, your smell. It's all so familiar, yet I haven’t literally experienced any of these things with you, but I feel like I know them. My sole purpose in life was to be your mother, and that's all I’ve cared about for years. I've refused to give you up. Refused to give up hope on you all while being told there was little hope by the medical world. I just knew they had to be wrong.

I needed you, and I think you needed me too. Unfortunately, there is something bigger than the both of us that will/is preventing us from being together in this physical world. You might be aware of the reasons, but I am not. You may have known this would be the ultimate outcome, but I did not. Now I feel like I'm in a pitch black room, alone, with no way out, trying to figure out how the hell I got here, instead of focusing on how the heck I'm going to get myself out.

How the hell did this happen? Why? Why was I given the love of a mother, but not given the physical capability to be one? Am I broken? I've been asking God why he gave me the love, the immense love for motherhood, if he was not going to bless me with a child of my own. I have not been given that answer yet. I will likely never have those answers. Not in this lifetime.

Who am I now? I've been "waiting" to live, "waiting" to be a mother, "waiting" for life to start, "waiting" for me to hit my potential and fulfill my purpose. Now what the hell do I do? Who am I?? All that I know I am has been ripped from me and continuing to be. The hopes of the one thing I've strived for, GONE. Literally just up and gone.

I had hope through the hardest times. I never let go. Now, I’ve been left with no choice. My dream was utterly killed. Where does that leave me now?  It's created a massive gaping black empty space in my being. The space was previously filled with hope, waiting to be filled with you. But now, there’s nothing. The hope is dying. The dream is dying. That life is dying. Motherhood is dying, and so is a major piece of me. This sounds dramatic, but that’s because it is. This is major and unfair. I deserve you.

What do I do with all this love? It's just feeding sadness. I feel like you are dying slowly, while I come to terms and acceptance. How can I miss someone I don't know? Someone who did not physically exist? I have no idea, but I do know that I will miss you with every fiber of my being for the rest of my life. I will always feel your absence, and have the awareness that you are missing from me.

I have to learn to stop thinking about you. I need to heal. I have been given no choice but to let you go. I don't know how to live without the hopes of you. How are you such a major part of my life and you are not physically here, and never were?

There is so much to say and nothing at all. I have to make myself accept and give up. But this is not my choice. I've been given no other option. I have to do this. I'm wondering if I even can. If I can't, then I'm in denial, which isok, but unhealthy. I have to accept that I will never be your mother. I will never carry you inside me, feed you, hold you, make you laugh, console you, teach you, guide you, or love you in this physical world. That chance, if there was ever one, was ripped from me, thrown in a box and sealed. 

You would have really loved our fur babies, they are with me now. You would have really loved your dad too. He would have been the easy and fun parent. I think I would have made a pretty great mother, so you would have really loved me too.

I need to focus on me and who I am and who I am meant to be. What am I on this earth for? What is my purpose? Can it be to just exist? That's such a contrast from motherhood.

I don't know how to end this letter, so let's just leave it at this. Please know and trust that I've loved and waited for you my entire life. I have loved you like you existed. You kind of did though, in my mind and heart. You were my driving life goal. You were so wanted. I had so much hope. My acceptance with letting you go is because I have no other choice. This does not come easy and will be work in progress. I have to grieve you. It truly does feel like you've died because the pain of this is so deep. I will miss you, the thought of you. I love you so much.

Maybe, hopefully, someday, some life, we will cross paths.