Dear younger me, dear, dear girl,

You heard the words that would tell you how it would be. You heard the stories. You saw the families. You saw the parents. You saw the sweet little ones grow. You watched how families interacted. You saw how the parents guided, touched, disciplined and loved their children. You watched a lot. You saw good and bad examples and you started a list in your head, detailing what you would do when it was your turn. Your turn? Of course you would have a turn. This is what your life was to be. You would do this… Live here… Place this there… Try this… Respond that way… Read this… Go here… Do that... This was you! It was all around you. It was every conversation about periods and boys and sex and childbirth and hormones and how you were made to be a mother. This was your next role. You would be a mother and you would do this well.

Dear younger me,

I know you couldn’t help watching, looking, wishing and gaining information. But dear girl, as much as it was in you, around you, before you, it was not ALL you could be. You just didn’t know. You were about to embark on the biggest emotional upheaval that your body and mind could have. You gained a cot and a highchair in the months you were trying to conceive. You started to put things aside knowing your turn would come. The words of your sister who carefully voiced them one day, asking why baby items were here already and that maybe had you considered that you may not get to have your turn. What? How dare she voice those words! “Me? Never. I am the most maternal of all. I am ready to do this. I had so much to do with caring and loving my two little sisters that were born when I was a teenager. I was born to do this. I will have them. This is me”.

Dear younger me,

Who can breathe when the doctor’s news is spoken? Who can swallow? The huge lump in your throat constricts. Your knees give way. You’re going to fall. You’re going down. You somehow… sit. You feel the tears fall out of your eyes but no words come. What could possibly be worth saying? What words will help? None will help. It is as my sister said. It’s happened to me. Me. Surely not, you say. This is not my news. The doctor got it wrong. This must be someone else’s news. The information went to the wrong person. I’m not in this. I’m not here! Your heart is bursting. Your brain can’t think straight. You can’t move. “This can’t possibly be my story. My world was supposed to be pregnancy, a changing, curving stomach holding my growing child. Those hours of labour. Happy news. Tears of joy as we welcomed that precious, soft child placed on my stomach.” That’s what you waited for. That is what you expected. It’s what you thought was yours.

Dear younger me,

It IS your news. It IS your story and you can do this. You are valued because you are a human being and God made you. You are a person, a woman. The role of mother doesn’t define you. You are loved. You are someone. Speak truth to yourself, dear girl, because you’re going to need it for the years ahead. The pain of this lost dream will linger long in your heart. You will hurt without even hearing other’s words but those words, oh they will hurt too. They will burden you well after they are said. Other’s opinions and suggestions and ideas will cut you deep. Hold fast. Keep moving on and dear girl, cry when you have to, talk about it when you want to, smile when you want to but don’t do it unless you want to. Don’t go to that baby shower or that hospital room to visit a newborn if you don’t want to. Others will not know what to do. They will stop talking when you walk by. They will change the subject for fear of hurting your feelings. They will look at you with pity because they know not what to say and they too, thought you would be what you aren’t. They don’t know what to do with you because they have contributed to what they thought you’d be. It will affect more people than just you. Your loving, wonderful husband will hurt too. He needs you and you need him. Belong to each other. Be each other’s best friend because together you have to go through the storm. When the winds and waves of unkind and thoughtless words, press in on you, reach for each other. Love well. Look always to your God for His grace and care and strength. And that sweet, sister of yours who spoke those words? She sees you as you are. The label of mother may not be yours but she doesn’t let it define you. Your childlessness, your pain, loss and hurt, she sees. Keep going dear girl. Push through the moments and events and never, ever be ashamed to cry.

Anonymous