Every year up until this one, I have had the faith that next year will be a better one, or at least, I’ve had my eye on a goal to finish, a project to complete, a change to make.

Sitting here on the last day of 2013, I can’t find a way to make that promise to myself.  I’m still numb, still frozen in place.  Some piece of myself never left that ultrasound room.  Some piece of my own heart died when the tiny heartbeat stopped. 

And wouldn’t you know it, exactly one year after Dr. B told me that I really needed to see a specialist if I was going any further in treating my infertility was my D and C to end my pregnancy.  I think next December 17, I’m going to take the day off from work and refuse to get out of bed, answer the phone, or do anything of import.  If anything could completely extinguish the little flame of hope about how life might be better in the future, that odd coincidence is it.

For the first time, I’m actually afraid of what the next year might bring.


But despite all of the crap, all the depression, all the anger, all the sadness, I do have some hopes for what 2014 will have in it.

There will be Arthur and somehow leaning into one another through it all.

There will be running.  Slowly.  Even though I look amazingly stupid when I run.  And it will be good.

There will be Walden to reread.  There will be Longfellow poems to recite.  There will be J.R.R. Tolkien’s genius ending to The Lord of the Rings that at once encapsulates hope while refusing to ignore the brokenness.  There will be Nadia Bolz-Weber to remind me that I can be a feminist, swear, and still somehow find faith.

There will be songs to dance around the living room in.

There will be people I am so damn lucky to have in my life, who are somehow able to shine light into the dark areas.  Even when I’d rather sulk in the dark.

There will be chances for me to give that light to others.  Because despite the many broken pieces, I am finally whole enough to reach out in a way I couldn’t before.

And in some ways, even if it isn’t exactly what I had planned on, even if there’s no promise, even if there’s no goal I can reach, maybe it’s enough.  Enough to overcome the fear.  Enough to make me step out into the unknown. Enough to keep on walking through this life. 

May you have enough of whatever it takes you to keep putting one foot in front of the other.  Enough to somehow hold on to life, even when that life looks nothing like you ever pictured.  Enough to find what you seek in 2014. 


22 thoughts on “Enough

  1. I am so sorry for your loss. When our hearts have been broken so many times, it’s hard to have faith and hope for the future. I like your plans for a happier new year – I just shared mine as well. I wish you a blessed and successful 2014.

  2. Such a beautifully written post, and speaks for me, too, thank you. You write: “For the first time, I’m actually afraid of what the next year might bring.” I feel the same way. Every once in a while the hope is bigger than the fear, but the fear is huge.

    You are strong and whole and good. Thank you for this: “There will be chances for me to give that light to others. Because despite the many broken pieces, I am finally whole enough to reach out in a way I couldn’t before.”

  3. I had no word to aptly give you comfort. None that hadn’t already been said. I just wanted to let you know that even though I don’t know you, and haven’t been what you have been through, I just wanted to say acknowledge your loss. I am so glad you wrote this post. You will survive this grief, it’s just changed you. Thank you for your words of hope, keep the faith.

  4. Such a beautiful post, thank you for saying what I feel: I am terrified of what 2014 will bring. Hoping so much that it is a little bit brighter for us all. Hugs xx

  5. Pingback: Dear 2014, Be good to me. | Fertility Doll

  6. I agree with the other girls…this resonates so much: “For the first time, I’m actually afraid of what the next year might bring.” And you so delicately capture the complex and faceted outlook of trying to live a life while suffering in purgatory, mired in uncertainty. All the “Happy New Year!” stuff last night felt disingenuous and gilded with faux-optimism for the sake of the occasion. This is such an honest message, and I really appreciate that.

  7. I am so, so sorry for your cruel loss. I am hopeful for you for 2014… It is so hard to hope for something better when each year brings more loss and disappointment (not a strong enough word) and devastation, but I hope that this new year is better. I love your message at the end, to put one foot in front of the other, to hold on to life even when it is nothing like you thought it would be at this point. Thank you for that.

  8. Thanks for stopping by my blog through my creme post. So sorry to hear about your recent loss, I share your hesitation about what 2014 my bring, I’m excited to continue with our next treatments, but I know all too well what disappointment it can bring as well

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