Elizabeth

On a cold November day last year my journey to being a mother ended. It just STOPPED.

My heart broke into a million tiny pieces. What do I do now? What happens next? 

One Day At A Time

Three days later, in the pouring rain I put my wellies on and stepped out into my soggy, windy English hilltop garden and I sowed my first seeds of hope for a brighter future.  Although bruised and feeling an indescribable sadness, I scattered and buried over one hundred tulip bulps: purple ones, frilly ones, stripy ones, yellow ones, white ones, red ones…I was soaking wet and covered in soil by the end, but it gave me just a glimmer brightness and hope in the darkest of moments.

Sleepwalking

My husband and I sleepwalked through that winter.  Despite the bright, twinkling lights, the sound of jolly Christmas songs and the roaring fires, Christmas was devastatingly dark. There was so much rain and so, so much sorrow. It was as if the sky was crying all of my tears along with me. It felt like we were stuck in the deepest rut, with no way out, no way forwards. “Do the things that bring you joy” I was told.  But I couldn’t remember what joy was and how to do it.

The Sun Came Out in Spring

Somehow, though, I started to learn to move again. Walking along the country lanes surrounding my home with my fluffy eleven year old dog and my husband. Walking to my yoga class and stretching and closing my eyes and letting it all go. Being completely and utterly in those moments.

Then, we were on an early Spring holiday with sun blazing down on us, and we drew a line in the soft white sand and, bare footed, we stepped decisively over it, together.  “Future/Past” was the choice. 

We chose Future and we celebrated our choice with a cold lager and a kiss whilst our feet dangled in the warm, transparent sea with tiny colourful fishes swimming around our feet. It felt like life was beginning again.

Taking Bigger, Longer Steps

By Summer I could feel my strength starting to return. I was still moving, walking and the fire in my soul was reigniting. I knew that somewhere within me the worthy, capable woman was still there and that I was not useless or lost or broken - and neither was my husband.

We decided we should climb Skiddaw in the Lake District – England’s third highest mountain, 931m high. On a good day at the summit, you can see Ireland. Often named “Misty Skiddaw” because it’s often shrouded in its own personal mist even on the clearest days.

Unintentionally choosing the hottest day of the year to climb we slipped on our muddy hiking boots and, honestly, we were both a little hesitant as we looked up at the endless zig zag paths along the side and all the way to the top. It was intimidating, and with its hidden peaks (just when you thought you’d found the top), we wondered if we’d ever reach the that elusive trig point.

Would this be another failure? Another story where we didn’t make it? 

No. That’s what a voice on my shoulder kept telling me. This zig zag path, these hidden peaks, they would not beat me. Not this time.

“One foot in front of the other” was all I kept telling myself. Keep putting one foot in front of the other. Those damn zig zag paths made the climb feel impossibly eternal, the heat made it feel as if we were moving heavily through treacle. We were moving forwards, slowly, but the speed didn’t matter. We rested when we needed to, we admired the view, but we kept putting one foot in front of the other. 

Four hours later we reached the top. As we did, the low cloud shrouding the final peak parted as if curtains were opening and it was the most incredible feeling. I – WE – did it. We had climbed out of the valley and to the top of the mountain. And, I thought, if we can do that, we can do anything. Anything at all. I looked around at the breath-taking view and listened to the total silence that surrounded us. I felt a sense of freedom, of accomplishment that I’d not felt in a very long time. We had made it and we had done it together, just us two. We had supported each other, encouraged each other and, because of it, we were stronger even than that big old rock we were standing on top of.

Back at the bottom our legs were jelly and we were tired. Twenty kilometres, thirty-five thousand steps, and over six hours of walking. We proved, if only to ourselves, that we can still do hard things and it can still feel good.

Where next?

A part of me is still on that white sandy beach and at the top of that mountain and I think it always will be. I step in all directions as I navigate this new and unexpected future; I know sometimes there will be more of those zig zag paths and I’ll feel like I’m getting nowhere.

I’m still working out where I – no, WE - go from here, what adventures there will be next. But this life is OURS and together we will keep pushing forwards. This journey doesn’t end and we will adapt and move along with it forever. Because this thing that has happened, it’s part of us now, but it’s not all that we are. I am so much more. My husband is so, so much more and I love him more for it every single day. We are worthy of a fulfilled and contented life and we are worthy of the love we give ourselves and each other. Being a parent, you see, isn’t all there is for us. 

Maybe, some days we will be on this journey in our battered and muddy hiking boots, other days we’ll be in our very best shoes and other times, well, we’ll just be bare footed, feeling every inch of the ground beneath our feet. But we will always be moving forwards and I for one will always be grateful that, hand in hand, we clamoured our way out of that deep, dark rut to see the endless horizon around us.

(p.s. the one hundred tulips, when they came out in early May, were beautiful, just like a rainbow)