When do we become mothers?

Surely its not when the doctor places that wriggling breathing crying baby on our chest. Not every mother is so lucky to reach that moment. Not every mother is guaranteed a living baby. Surely, we aren’t telling those mothers that they aren’t mothers because their babies died. Surely we wouldn't dream of invalidating those almost 10 months they carried their beautiful babies. The months they spent planning and prepping and praying for a baby they would never get to bring home. We would never say “well you didn’t really give birth.” “well you weren’t really pregnant.” We know that they were. That they carried, and loved, and mothered their precious babies for their entire lives. Lives that were far too short.

But when, then, does a mother become a mother?

Is it when baby reaches 24 weeks gestation and is finally deemed “viable”? Valuable enough to be protected against being removed, forcibly, from the womb that has protected them for their whole life.

Is that when a woman becomes a mother? When the living baby inside of her is finally deemed valuable enough to be protected separately from her.

I don’t believe that either.

I have watched friends mourn their babies at 23 weeks. 20 weeks. 16 weeks. 12 weeks. 7 weeks. 5 weeks.

Are they not mothers, also?

I believe with everything in me that they are. That a living child does not make a mother. That we would never say to a woman who has lost her 2 year old that she is no longer a mother. So why would we say it to a woman who has miscarried her precious baby? It that child not equally desired? Equally loved? Equally alive?

Is it when a woman finds out that she’s pregnant that she becomes a mother? Maybe in her heart, but I don’t believe that either. You see, most women don't know that they’re pregnant for four to six weeks, but still, they’re carrying life inside of them. Life that I believe is equally valuable.

Did you know that while a woman is pregnant, her babies DNA mixes with hers, and to some extent it always will be? That as women our bodies carry the DNA of every baby who we’ve ever carried, even if we never got to hold them in our arms.

So is carrying a baby what makes us a mother?

I don’t think so.

What about adoptive mothers? Mothers who hold babies in their arms who never carried them in their stomachs.

What about foster mothers? Who take on the sacred responsibility of loving babies they have no legal rights to. Of carrying them while their mothers can’t, knowing innately the heartache they are risking by doing so.

Do they stop being mothers because the child they were mothering reunified?

I don’t believe that either. 


So when then?

I see mothers every day who’s arms are empty. Who hesitate when people ask if they have any children because the answer feels less than straightforward.

I think motherhood is more a posture of the heart than an actual, physical position. Its the intention of mothering. Its the love that a woman is willing to pour out to a child who needs her more than anything.

So here’s to moms, whatever your motherhood journey looks like.

introspection (week 34)

lost and found (week thirty two and thirty three)

un-curated (week thirty)

growing pains (week twenty nine)

mom guilt (week twenty eight)

Babies don't keep (week twenty seven)

deepest hope (week twenty six)

Mountains and Canyons (week twenty five)

168 days in (week twenty four)

24 weeks. We finally made it to six months. This week feels immensely significant for a coupe of reasons. 

For one, our little guys chance of surviving outside of the womb is now 63% which is significantly better than it has been in weeks previous, and will only continue to improve. 

He’s also almost a pound and a half now, and 13 whole inches long. 

He kicks like crazy and wiggles so much whenever I try to sleep that sometimes I just can’t. And his kicks are getting so strong that my whole belly jumps now. 

He responds if I poke my belly, and sometimes even to loud noises. 

Most significantly though, we have officially reached the point at which elective abortions are no longer legal. 

I don’t have the right words to explain how devastating that feels to me that we’re only hitting that point now. 168 days into this pregnancy. 168 days of growing this tiny perfect little human. Months of feeling him wiggle and kick. Of waiting anxiously to see his tiny heart beating on the ultrasound machine. Of praying so hard + so long that he would be okay when everything was looking so desperately grim my first trimester. 

He has a name. 

A heartbeat. Strong arms and legs. Hands. Feet. 10 fingers and 10 toes. Two eyes. Pursed lips. A little button nose. 

He already has tastebuds and is practicing breathing in amniotic fluid.

He is perfectly miniature, and mine, and the love I already have for this little boy is unreal. 

But the fact that today is the first day that his life “legally” counts makes my heart sick. 

He is the same baby today as he was yesterday. The same heart beats in him now that did at 16 days. It’s the same heart that will beat in him at 30 years and 50 years and beyond. It’s the same heart that I will do everything in my power to protect. I haven’t even met him and already I can’t fathom a world where he doesn’t exist. 

The love of a mother is something else. 

But we live in a world that values time and freedom first. That tells Mother’s that their beautiful growing baby is just a clump of cells. Not really alive. That an abortion is better for the baby than growing up in foster care. 

How different would things look if instead of that we talked about how precious life is. How miraculous that a baby learns their mother’s voice from inside the womb and when it’s born, they will already recognize her. How incredible the way life blooms and grows from something smaller than a mustard seed. 

What if we offered support instead of judgement? What if we just valued life, without exception? 

We’ve spent the last two months sheltering in place to protect the most vulnerable in our communities, but it seems so many people have forgotten about the most at-risk population: the babies who cannot advocate for themselves. 

It’s more important than ever to be a voice for the voiceless. The significantly at risk. My precious boy is safe and growing in my belly because I value his life. My belief that it has value protects it. But how many more little ones are not safe because the person who’s “choice” is considered more important than theirs doesn’t see the same value.

We need to do better than this. More education. More support. More resources. Less judgement. 

If you’re pregnant right now and struggling, please reach out. Whatever your circumstances, we all need a community to support us through it. 

Our babies are worth it. 

Messy and Miraculous (week twenty two/twenty three)

Week 23

Last week I was asking God to speed things up, now I’m begging time to slow down. 

Thank goodness He doesn’t listen to the silly things we want, and instead gives us exactly what we need. What is actually good for us. 

For the first time today I realized I’m a week and a few days shy of six months. 

Does it go this fast for everyone? I’ve gotten so used to the constant kicks and movements inside my belly that I don’t want them to stop. There’s a bittersweetness in giving birth. 

As much as I’m so excited to meet him, there’s something so precious about having this little boy all to myself. With me, wherever I go. I’m slowly learning his likes and dislikes (based off of which foods and things make him wiggle and move like crazy.) 

He loves ice cream drizzled with honey. He still has me eating cherry tomatoes by the handful. And somehow I think he’s going to do best on a schedule because for the first time, I actually have a consistent one. Wake up. Coffee. Breakfast. Work. Lunch. Nap. Spend time outside. Dinner. Sleep.

The nap is crucial. Like seriously. Especially since I’m waking up to pee every two hours at night and that isn’t exactly the most restful sleep I’ve ever gotten. Never mind the heartburn and the fact that I require a minimum of three pillows but preferably more. 

My poor husband has like a sliver of the bed at this point and even then I keep telling him to move over because I just can’t get comfortable. 

Pregnancy is wild. And messy. And uncomfortable. And so darn miraculous. 

Shifting (week twenty one)

Week 21 part 1

It’s 2:30 and I can’t sleep, again. In less than 12 hours I will put on my mask and gloves and walk alone into the medical building for my anatomy scan. Due to the virus, my husband isn’t allowed to go with me. He will sit in the car for the hour that my appointment takes. If we’re lucky, the WiFi will work, and I’ll be able to face time him so he can see his baby on the ultrasound.It will be my first time walking into this kind of appointment on my own. My first time holding my breath until the babies heartbeat shows up on the monitor. Thankfully he/she spends most days kicking me and wiggling now, so most of the fear about not seeing a heartbeat has dissipated. But I also know that this is the appointment they look for abnormalities and defects... and the idea that I might get bad news sitting alone in that room is terrifying. 

All of this just feels overwhelming and not how it was supposed to be, and I am feeling all kinds of guilt because later today we get to find out our sweet babies gender and I’m not even excited anymore. 

And I desperately want to be. 

A sweet friend reminded me yesterday to be kind to myself, and not to feel pressured to feel any sort of way. But it’s hard when everyone else seems more excited than I am. When I feel like I’ve been holding my breath for 5 months while everyone else celebrates. 

She sent over the verse Joel 2:25. A verse I’ve quoted myself in a very different season, and one I thought I understood. 

“I will restore to you the years
    that the swarming locust has eaten.” 

Its a verse that I understand in a much deeper way now. After watching days and weeks and months blur together, all while my belly swells and my baby kicks inside of it. 

And the whole world shifts. 

Or at least mine does. Ours. 

Week 21 part 2

It’s 4 am and I can’t sleep again, but in a different sort of way. A little more than 24 hours have passed since my last update, but sometimes life shifts dramatically in a small space of time, and I want to be authentic to that. It would be really easy to leave out one side or the other, but it wouldn’t be real. 

Our baby BOY is doing summer-salts in the depth of my belly, and my brain just won’t seem to settle. 

This whole time I’ve been convinced we were having a girl, to the point that I was shocked when I saw blue on our envelope and needed to sit with it for a minute. To evaluate whether I was genuinely disappointed or just surprised. I’ve settled on the latter though. 

Somehow, I think I’m relieved. And for the first time in a really long time, excited. It’s funny how quickly everything shifts. 

I can’t wait to meet this little man, but for now, I’m so grateful that he’s snuggled up safe and tight.

Mothers Day Thoughts

This Mother’s Day feels different for me. Probably because for the first time the sweet little one growing in my womb has finally aligned my outward title with the thing I have long known to be true in my heart. 

I am a mom. 
I think there are a lot of paths to motherhood, some more traditional than others, but all equally special and valid. I have felt like a mom a lot longer than I have been acknowledged as one, and I think for many reasons its made this a super hard holiday for me in the past. I know I’m not alone there.So what is a mom? Because a mom is a noun meaning a woman in relation to her children, but it’s also a verb. An action. To mother. To bring up a child with care and affection. To birth, sometimes, but not always. I know a lot of moms who have never carried children in their bellies but certainly have their arms and hearts full. I know women who’s arms are empty, but who carry their children in their hearts instead. And I know women who carry other people’s children, for as long as they need to, while also trying to carry their mothers as well. Birth moms. Foster moms. Bonus moms. Step moms. I don’t think any of these paths are any more or less valid. If anything, it’s a lot easier to fall into motherhood than it is to choose it. To walk willingly into that fire, knowing that it will leave your heart forever changed and your clothes slightly singed. After all, when we look at the characteristics of what it means to mother, we realize it’s a much broader spectrum. According to hello motherhood, “a mother is a selfless, loving human who must sacrifice many of their wants and needs for the wants and needs of their children.” “A mother works hard to make sure their child is equipped with the knowledge, skills, and abilities to be a competent human being.” If you’re a mother already, think about how many people fall into this category in your children’s lives. Teachers, coaches, mentors, children’s ministry volunteers. When we think of motherhood as an action instead of an arbitrary assignment based on who has physically been able to give birth, or who currently has a child in their arms, suddenly the group widens. And how much richer are these children’s lives because of all the moms who pour into them. Who teach and nourish them. Who love them, whether or not they’ve carried them in their bellies. I’ll go so far as to say we genuinely couldn’t do it without them. Raising children takes a village, and these women are absolutely crucial. As someone who felt like a mom with no children for so many years, I can tell you I physically ached for my outward perception to line up with the way I felt in my heart. I spent years loving and nurturing other people’s children. Taking them to sports practice. Cheering them on. Listening to their hurts and dreams and fears. I spent so many weeks and weekends away at summer camp, stepping into that motherhood role in a really tangible way. Reminding them to take showers and drink enough water. Helping them brush the knots from their hair. Encouraging. Teaching. Having really hard conversations when necessary. I have loved so many children as my own, and ached each time I had to send them home, sometimes to homes that weren’t really homes at all. One Mother’s Day a student from our youth ministry asked me if I would adopt her. She was asking almost all of the married leaders. So desperate to find a mom. A loving home. Something so foreign to her group living experience. Something I just couldn’t provide, no matter how much I would have liked to. It isn’t the first time I’ve been asked by a child to take them in, but it hit me in a different way this time, because I realized that Mother’s Day is a holiday that has the effect of pouring water into something. Gallons and gallons of it. Sometimes the container holds up, but more often than not, it points out the gaping holes. The places where the day aches in unspeakable ways. The missing. The longing. The hurt. All incredibly valid. So my encouragement for all of you is this: today let’s acknowledge all of the moms, not just the ones with children in their arms. Our lives (and our children’s) are so much richer because of them. And let’s also pray for the motherless. Some children long for a mom just as desperately as some women long to have children. 

Good Company (week twenty)

I want to preface by saying this. 

The thing that my body is doing is absolutely miraculous. It’s something I wasn’t sure it was capable of. Something that my first trimester it felt less than made for. Something that a lot of women would trade anything for. 

I refuse to take it for granted. 

Even in the discomfort and worry and anxiety. Even when I can’t sleep for the fifth night in a row because the heartburn is at an all time high and I have to pee every two hours. 

Even when the things that used to be so easy are suddenly difficult. Even in a pandemic that is doing its best to strip away joy. 

But pregnancy is also isolating. Because it isn’t just my body any more, and every decision I make has to include the risk to the precious fragile life doing somersaults in my belly. All 10 and a half inches of my sweet little one are relying on me to keep it safe. To make good choices + take precautions that keep him or her growing for as long as possible. 

Even after the stay at home order lifts, I’ll still be considered high risk. Between asthma + pregnancy, my precautions won’t change once the world opens back up- and I am all for the world opening back up. I just think those of us in the high risk category need to be prepared to continue taking the same precautions.

 I still won’t be able to hug my friends, which I’m missing so much more than I realized I would. Or go to church. Or sit in coffee shops for hours. Because before the pandemic even hit I was high risk for preterm labor (a side effect of PCOS.) and now that more and more studies are linking Covid-19 to preterm labor and even in some cases second trimester miscarriages, I have even more to be cautious about. 

Maybe it’s just the pandemic, but after spending my first trimester primarily at home on modified bedrest pre-pandemic (most of that alone because my husband was working) I’m doing everything I can to squash the little voice in my head telling me this is just what life is going to be like now. That I’m just going to be isolated from most people from now on. 

I realized this morning that it’s been five months since I’ve even seen some of my friends (outside of quick hello’s at church when I wasn’t too sick to go, or scattered conversation in passing.)

Because life keeps moving forward whether you do or not. And as much as I’m moving forward, the last five months have felt very much like staying in place while everyone else’s lives kept spinning.  It’s hard to shake the feeling that I’m missing everything. 

I am deeply craving that connection. Days spent at coffee shops, sitting across from someone you love, talking about our lives. Planning photoshoots. Exploring downtown. Creating beautiful photos for the people that I love. If the last few weeks have taught me anything, it’s how much we take for granted. 

In a season that was supposed to be so joy filled,  I’m having to force myself to look for it. 

We talked about what happiness was at one of our last small group zooms, and the deeper into this season I get, the more I realize that it is a discipline. A choice to be happy, even when our circumstances are less than so, and life just isn’t looking like we thought it would. 

If that’s where you’re at right now, you’re in good company. It’s okay if some days the best you can do is try. 

The really great thing is we have a God who allows us to come to Him completely broken. He’s always welcomed us exactly as we are. Broken. Messy. Happy. Unhappy. Complete and utter works in progress. He loves us just the same. 

We just have to lean in. 

Made for (week nineteen)

Being a momma has been the thing my heart has craved for so long. 

Long before I was “ready.” Though if I’m being honest, I feel less “ready” now than ever, feeling my sweet babe wiggle and kick in the depths of my belly. 

I’ve always taken care of people by nature. It went from my little sister, to my grandma, to my profession, literally for years, as a caregiver for different families and people, and finally to youth and kids ministry. I’ve always fallen into that “nurturing” role, all the while feeling a vacancy inside my chest each time I had to say goodbye to the kiddos I watched and so easily fell in love with.

For so many years, I felt like a mom without children.  A hurt that didn’t feel like it belonged to me, yet somehow ached just the same. 

Maybe that’s what happens when you spend years raising other people’s children and have none of your own. When countless hours go to rocking them to sleep. Comforting them when they cry. Celebrating their little victories with them. Bandaging every bruised knee. Listening to them talk about their day at school and their hurts and wants and hopes and dreams.

Maybe it’s just who I’ve always been. My deepest calling. 

For the first time in as many years as I can remember, I’m not feeling that ache anymore. 

And in its place is hope. This deep wild beautiful hope that can only come from Him. Even in the midst of a pandemic, and fear, and uncertainness, God has sent me so many sweet reminders to have hope, and to keep my hope in Him. 

I’m beyond grateful for everyone who has reached out this week. People I’ve known for years and people I’ve never even met in person, reminding me that I am loved, and everything is going to be okay. God has used you all more than you could even know and I can’t say thank you enough.

Whatever the future holds, I know for certain who holds the future. 

A Jumble of Thoughts (week sixteen/seventeen/eighteen)

The last few weeks have been a blur and also, somehow simultaneously, what feels like a slow trudge up a steep mountain. 

I read something this week about trauma that stuck with me. It said we’re all living through a collective trauma right now. For those of us who have experienced trauma before, this will likely feel like a sudden re-opening of those wounds. For those of us who have never felt it, it will be saddening, overwhelming and maybe even downright confusing. 

Whichever side of the spectrum you fall on, odds are you’re feeling some pretty big feelings about all of that. I’m here to tell you -and mostly myself- that that’s okay. 

These days look a lot different than I was expecting. I had all of these big ambitious plans for the year I grew my first little one in my belly.

All of these things I wanted to accomplish and experience. Odds are most of them probably won’t happen now, and I’ve been trying to remind myself that I’m allowed to feel sad that this pregnancy that I fought so hard for won’t look like I was expecting it to. I won’t get to go out shopping for sweet baby things, or get to show off the belly bump in pretty thrifted maternity dresses at church on Sundays. 

I can’t even have my husband come with me to my twenty week scan, or to doctors appointments like he used to. 

I most likely won’t get to have a baby shower, or even be able to have family except for my husband there when I deliver. 

I remember how excited we all were when the first friend in our smallgroup had a baby. We couldn’t wait to rush to the hospital to see them and see their new little one. 

Most likely, I won’t have that. And it’s okay. But it’s okay to be sad too. To mourn the season that I was so excited to walk (physically) through with my friends and family close around me. For now, FaceTime and phone calls will have to do. 

But through all of this- through a literal stripping down of social events and societal norms, and little comforts, the thing I’ve been learning lately is that those things don’t matter anyways. 

Jesus matters. People matter. Love matters. The church was never meant to be four divided walls. It was always meant to be a people. Us. 

No virus or restrictions or quarantine will change that, or prevent us from leaning in and pouring into our community. It’s just going to look a little different for a while. 

One day I will probably have to explain to my baby what the world was like when I carried them. The uncertainty. The fear. The days spent transitioning from bedroom to living room to balcony. Choosing between different parts of the apartment like you normally would choose between different fast food restaurants. Planning meals a week in advance to make sure the grocery order was correct, because going out was too much of a risk. 

I will be explaining to a wide-eyed child that at one point we couldn’t go to normal stores. We had to wear masks when we went outside. We couldn’t see our friends, or go to church or the movies. And people went crazy and started hoarding toilet paper. I can imagine them laughing when I say that. 

More than anything though, I pray that when we tell future generations about all of this, we would focus on the good instead of the hard or stressful. The relationships cultivated + nurtured. The amazing friends who sent sweet care packages or letters. The people who checked in on us every week. The hours spent on the phone or face timing with family and friends. The new skills we learned and meals we cooked. The Sunday mornings spent tuning into church online from the safety of our living room. 

When all of this is over, I hope we remember what God taught us in this season; what a beautiful gift it is to slow down. Lean in. Breathe deep. 

That we would learn the true value of things, whether it’s the food we eat or the people we love. There’s been a quote circulating on social media the last few weeks that says “In the rush to return to normal, let's use this time to consider which parts of normal are worth rushing back to." I think if we can all sit with that, and really take it to heart, the worlds going to look a lot different even after things “go back to normal” and that’s perfectly fine with me. 

So lean in. Let yourself be sad. But let yourself be happy too. Look for the good. The helpers. The little silver linings. We’re all going to get through this, one way or another. 

Brutal honesty (week fifteen)

I’ve been putting off writing this for days. 

Probably because I promised myself to be honest and vulnerable in this space, and for the first time I’m having a really hard time doing that. 

So here goes nothing. Here’s my hard and messy and ugly vulnerable truth. 

I’m having a really hard time. I’m doing everything I can to encourage other people, and - I - am - struggling. 

This isn't what pregnancy was supposed to look like. After praying and fighting so hard for this baby. After spending almost three months primarily on bedrest. After weeks of bleeding, and praying, and bleeding some more. This isn't what life was supposed to look like. 

Five months ago we were talking about buying a house. Today we’re talking about moving in with my parents in November when our lease is up because we just don’t know how we’re going to financially survive this year, let alone when the baby comes. I’m officially sixteen weeks tomorrow. Four months. Almost halfway there. Five months is feeling way too short to have everything fall back into place before the baby gets here but we’re doing our best to make sure that we make choices that assure that our baby is safe and taken care of, even if this is the last place I thought I would be at 25. 

My career has essentially been frozen in place. I don’t know when I’ll be able to be out and doing photography again, and I’m mourning that more than I realized I would. To be able to do the thing you love every day and call it a job is such a gift. To have that taken away in an instant feels like glass shattering in my lungs. I’ve been photographing people since I was eleven. There are families who’s portraits I’ve taken every single year for five plus years. I don’t know how not to do that. I don’t know how not to be the thing that I have felt God calling me to since I was a child. 

But even in that space that hurts so deeply, there is goodness and there is joy, because slowly day by day I am growing towards the other thing I have always known God has called me to be: a mom.  My stomach has officially started to swell and I’m starting to feel flutters more frequently now. Its crazy how something so small feels so earth shattering in the best kind of way. 

Each day there are reminders that even in this darkness, God is growing something good. Isaiah 43:19 has been my life verse for so many months, and I thought it was about infertility, but I’m starting to realize that maybe its about something else. 

It says “Behold, I am doing a new thing; Now it springs forth, do you not perceive it? I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert.” 

After a year of trying to get pregnant, I thought I understood what a desert feels like. The isolation. The loneliness. But now I’m realizing its so much more. It’s not knowing how far the desert spans or the next time you’ll see people. Its wondering when and if you’ll be able to get the things that you need. 

Its standing in a grocery store looking at empty shelves. 

Its holding your breath when a person walks by you (instead of smiling like I normally would.)

It’s doing your laundry in the bathtub because you are so afraid of being exposed to something in the apartment Laundromat, because there are so many people coming and going. 

Its trying to fill your time each day so you don’t stop and think too much about everything else going on. 

Its anxiety pressing on your lungs each night, no matter what you do to keep it at bay. 

This week I broke down in my car after grocery shopping. I started having a panic attack before we could even get to checkout. I literally had to leave my husband with the cart and just walk out of the store before I broke down in front of the early morning shoppers.

If I’m being honest, I’m not even sure why I was crying. Maybe its because I’m not used to seeing empty shelves, or having to wear gloves to pick out my produce. Maybe its because the sweet little old lady standing all alone in line who literally went to the store for just a two dollar loaf of bread. Maybe its because I actually love grocery shopping, or at least I used to, but this feels more like a tactical mission. Get in, get out. Don’t get close to anyone. Grab some eggs if you’re really lucky. 

I’m trying really hard to adjust to the new normal, and if I’m being completely honest, I hate it. I miss being able to see my friends and hug them. I miss going to church. I miss being able to go see my parents. I miss not having to wear gloves every time I open my door to bring a package inside. I miss not having to sanitize my groceries. And more than anything, I miss the most chaotic and hard thing in my life being my stupid pregnancy symptoms. 

But again, I hear God’s promises. His sweet reminder that we are living in that desert right now, and He is going to bring rivers. That even in the wilderness, when things seem impossible, He’s going to make a way.  Once again, I’m reminded how humbling it is to be in a place so broken that you understand in the deepest of ways that God is the only one who can fix it. So this week, that is the best encouragement I can offer you. Lean on Him. Cling to Him. Trust that He will fulfill the promises that He has made to us. 

And if you’re struggling, please know that you’re not alone. 

Quarantine (Week fourteen)

Fourteen weeks. We finally made it to fourteen weeks. 

The same morning I woke up to my pregnancy app congratulating me on surviving my first trimester, I woke up to a news feed filled with fear. The kind of fear that seeps under doorways + lines your pockets so that whenever you go to grab something out of them, fear comes tumbling out too. 

The Coronavirus has been on the tip of every tongue and the top of every newsfeed for days, and each day comes with more restrictions and more stories of people getting sick or else going crazy panic buying and fighting over toilet paper. 

This week has been a whirlwind in the worst sort of way. The chaotic and messy sort that leaves you out of breath, your shoes and clothes muddy. That breeds selfishness and leaves grocery store shelves eerily empty. 

In three days we went from no groups or events larger than 250, to no gatherings at all. From simply recommendations to mandates, enforceable by fines or jail time. 

We went from social distancing, to all non-essential businesses shutting down. To an order of “shelter in place” for those of us who fall into the “non-essential” category. 

We went from two weeks of this, to now what could be months before kids are back in school and life returns to some semblance of normal. 

As is always the case, God reveals things in the depths of chaos and uncertainty, and the thing that He has reminded me lately is this: 

Normality is a blessing. The thing we call boring, and strive to get away from becomes the thing that we crave when everything feels chaotic and uncertain and hard. 

Fear has been so much more than a four letter word lately. It’s been the thing that keeps us up at night. That makes us panic in ways we haven’t in years. It grips our chest and squeezes tight, making it hard to breath. And of course, that just leads to more fear because our first collective thought has become “I’m having trouble breathing- I definitely have the corona virus.”

And most of us are afraid- whether your fear is for your health or someone else’s, or completely unrelated to health at all. Whether it’s your job situation or your rent being due in two weeks. Or maybe just the deep + vulnerable fear that won’t be able to feed your family because you’re barely scraping by as is. Maybe you’re afraid because you’re on the frontline of this as a medical professional, putting your life and your families life at risk to take care of other people. Maybe you have a medically fragile child, and a normal cold is enough to warrant a hospital visit. Maybe like me, you’re pregnant, and terrified for your unborn child and the world they’re being born into.

For the first time in my life I am making a grocery list knowing full well that the items on it may or may not be on the shelves when I get there. And I don’t mean just the brands I’m looking for. I don’t mean just the organic options. I mean the basics like eggs, or bananas, or rice. In any brand, or any portion. It is not a reality I have ever had to consider before, and for the first time in my life I am realizing how deeply I took it for granted that I could go to the grocery store and have options. That there was almost always multiple variations of the item I was looking for. And no matter what there was always enough. 

I haven’t had panic attacks for a long time, but grocery shopping a week ago (right when the panic really started to hit) I felt the familiar fear well up inside my chest, staring at the empty shelf where rice used to be. I felt my breath become shallow + my head start to spin. I literally had to leave the store and go to my car while my husband checked out because I needed to breathe + be able to pray and calm down. 

Whatever fear you’re feeling right now, know that you aren’t alone in this. 

And I also want to say this if you’re one of the few people not afraid: To not be afraid right now is a privilege. To not feel a single ounce of fear given everything going on puts you in a very small category, and you should be thanking God that you feel like you can survive this unscathed. 

But make no mistake, to live your life in a way that reflects how untouchable you feel is nothing short of selfish. 

Social distancing and quarantine may be inconvenient and boring for the people who aren’t concerned about getting sick, but it is a life saving measure for those of us who don’t have the luxury not to worry. 

We have to stay home. No trips out that are not absolutely necessary, and even then, we must act with caution. 

It is our best line of defense, and the best option for those of us who are not on the frontline fighting this (medical staff/ grocery workers/ truck drivers, and anyone else currently giving us the best fighting chance at not having mass casualties.) 

And for those of us in the high risk category like myself, it is literally our only option. 

I’m officially on day four of being quarantined and each day I have gotten out of bed, gotten dressed, and searched for some semblance of normal in my new day to day. It’s one thing to choose to stay home. It’s another entirely to have that choice made for you. To feel the overwhelming weight in that lack of choice. In all transparency, it’s a really scary time to be pregnant. To be preparing to bring life into the world, not knowing what that world will look like. It’s a really scary time to be anything though. Each day I have ricocheted between hope and fear, peace and anxiety. 

And all the while my sweet baby has grown safely deep beneath my skin, blissfully unaware of the chaotic world around it. A world that I pray softens before I go into labor in September. 

But here is what I know to be true. 

Despite everything going on, God is still good. He is still the one in control. Still faithful. Still sovereign. He has not left or forsaken us. 

Even in the darkness, I have seen His goodness played out in the acts of strangers and the kindness of friends alike. 

I have been consistently reminded of how lucky I am to have a roof over my head, enough food to eat, and so many options in my day to day life. Even in the deepest chaos I have ever lived through, there are beautiful silver linings. 

Let this be a reminder to all of us to be intentional. To check in with our friends. To spend quality time with our families. To be grateful for what we do have, because as we’ve seen, even those things are not guaranteed. Everything can shift in an instant, and while we all get used to this new normal, I pray that we can lean into (and lets be honest- search for) the sweetness in it. 

Slow down. Read books. Talk to God. Talk to your kids. Learn how to bake fresh bread. Soak in the smell of the rain and the way that the world looks when we are not racing a million miles a minute to be busy and productive.

This season won’t last forever, and it isn’t without its struggles and its fear, but it isn't without its joy either.  

The weight of choice (Week thirteen)

We watched our little one wiggle and squirm on the ultrasound while the tech tried (mostly unsuccessfully) to get an image at the right angle so they could measure the neck for Down syndrome. 

We opted out of everything except for the most basic genetic testing that insurance covers because it doesn’t really matter to us. Or at least, the outcome of the testing has no direct correlation to us continuing or not continuing with the pregnancy. That has never been a question for us. 

We prayed for this little one, and whether they are completely healthy or not, they are ours. Ours to love. Ours to fight for. 

As I watched my baby wiggle and squirm and clasp its little hands together, I was completely in awe of what God was doing. 

At thirteen weeks we could see our sweet ones little outline almost perfectly formed. Nose. Lips. Arms. Legs. All of his or her fingers and toes wiggling around and responding to my own movements. 

We are already so in love with this little being. And at just two and a half inches long, it’s humanity isn’t even a question. 

It’s one thing looking at a still ultrasound. A blurry grainy captured side profile printed in a long sheet. It’s another thing completely to watch the little ball of life twisting and turning and adjusting and sleeping and waking all in the safety of your belly. 

Our ultrasound tech had me shift from side to side and back to my back over and over again to try and get the baby to adjust correctly to the right angle. As I suspected, every time I was moved to my side, the baby immediately went to sleep. This is literally the only way I can rest myself so it made sense that that was more due to the babies preference than anything else. 

The second the tech had me move to my back, the baby would wake up again and start twisting around and flailing its hands, trying to get comfortable. She had me cough to get the baby to move, and watching it respond to something as small as a cough, or my laughter was absolutely astounding. It was one of the most incredible things I have ever seen, and ironically I’m grateful it took so long to get the correct image because it gave us just a little bit longer getting to see our precious babe moving around. 

While there was so much relief in having the confirmation that at 13 weeks everything still looked perfect, I couldn’t help but feel a pit in my stomach well up after that appointment. 

At thirteen weeks we had already fallen so in love with this little one, and been so lucky to have already had multiple ultrasounds where we were able to see what life really looks like as it grows in the womb. 

But the thing that kills me is I still have a choice.

I have eleven more weeks to decide if I want to continue with this pregnancy. I don’t need any medical reason, or any reason at all other than the fact that I have rights over my own body that my precious child doesn’t. This baby, this completely innocent perfect baby, has no ability to defend itself, and legally no “right” to life, even though I have watched it bloom on the ultrasound machine for the last 7 weeks. Even though I have watched it wiggle and squirm and use its teeny tiny fingers to touch its face. Even though I have watched it adjust to movement and sound, and seen it literally grow from less than an inch to almost three. I have seen the proof of life, but it doesn’t matter, because I have a choice, and someone somewhere decided that my ability to “choose” is more important than my babies right to live. 

And before anyone starts arguing that a baby is not really alive because it can’t live on its own, that’s completely arbitrary too. Infants as young as 22 weeks have been successfully delivered and saved through incredible neonatal care units and dedicated nursing staff, which is to say that infants delivered when it is still legal to abort them have gone on to live perfectly normal healthy lives. 

Not to mention the amount of people that could be deemed “not really alive” based on those standards because of their complete reliance on other people for basic functions. That is true of infants outside of the womb as well and a lot of small children, not to mention disabled people, medically fragile people, and even elderly people. By that logic anyone requiring a tracheotomy to breathe, or a breathing machine, or oxygen could be classified as not really alive because they have no ability to stay alive of their own accord. But you would never question their right to life. Even though in a lot of those cases, their condition is more likely to worsen than improve. 

Anyone in a coma relying on machines to complete all basic functions for them could be put in that category as well, and yet we see family at their bedside sitting and praying for a miracle. Willing them to wake up. Asking God to bring their loved ones back. Some of these people have no guarantee of waking up, ever, and if they do, it could be with severe brain damage and disabilities, but where there is hope, still we press on. 

Unlike with a coma patient, we have an exact timeline as to when an infant will officially be able to breathe on their own. There is no question of “if” they will, but simply when. 

So why is my “choice” more important that my babies life? I don’t think it is. 

I don’t think any “choice” should ever be more important than another life, whether that life is an infant one or otherwise. 

So my encouragement is this: mama’s, be candid about your pregnancies. Tell people what it’s really like to watch your baby (and yes use the word baby) wiggle and squirm and grow. Tell them how tiny your baby was the first time you saw it’s heartbeat on the screen. How many weeks along you were the first time you watched it wiggle it’s little arms. Remind them how alive this precious little miracle is, and how equally valuable life is. All life. Theirs, and yours, and the precious fragile baby growing inside of you. They cannot advocate for themselves yet. It’s up to us. 

Knit together (week twelve)

We’ve officially crossed the threshold of twelve weeks. I wish that meant a sigh of relief over here, but until my ultrasound Wednesday I’m still holding my breath a little bit.

I’ve gone back and forth on whether or not to even share how hard this pregnancy has been for us. I didn’t want to be insensitive. I know what it feels like to watch everyone else get pregnant, and have babies, while the only thing I was watching was a single line slowly show up on my pregnancy test over and over again, no matter how hard I prayed there would be two. 

Some of my closest friends are still living in that space, sitting with infertility like the roommate that won’t pay rent on time but constantly empties out your cabinets. Constantly leaves you asking “why?” Why did we get stuck with you? 

If that is your story right now, and it’s just too difficult to read about someone else’s pregnancy, you’re welcome to stop here. I won’t be offended. I know there were weeks when I was hopeful, when I soaked up any and every source on pregnancy I could. And there were weeks when the mention of someone getting pregnant (especially an accidental pregnancy) felt like glass shards in my lungs. Whatever side of the spectrum you fall on, I’ve been right there with you. 

Pregnancy didn’t come easy to us. In fact, it came when we had almost given up hope of it coming at all. Because after a year of negative pregnancy tests, and two medical conditions that have been proven to cause infertility, we thought we had our answer. 

Sometimes I think God laughs when we do this, because without realizing it, we had put Him in a box. Or at the very least, we had convinced ourselves that the thing we had desperately prayed for wasn’t meant to be ours, and we were doing our best to navigate being okay with that. 

Obviously God had very different plans for us, and for some reason I’m feeling very compelled to talk about what that looks like for us. 

As far as I know, baby is happily settling into my now grapefruit sized uterus. In case anyone was wondering- yes it is super painful when one of your organs decides to grow into the size of the largest breakfast fruit in a matter of months. Who knew. According to my pregnancy app, my body is currently producing a hormone called relaxin which is supposed to help my body (aka my literal bones) shift to accommodate our growing little one. If I’m being honest, relaxed is the last thing I’m feeling though. Literally all of my bones from my hips down are aching and complaining about the changes to the point that I’m having trouble sleeping at night.

People tell you about the stretch marks, and the cravings, and the mood swings, but they don’t explain this; The way that your physical body shifts in irreversible ways to accommodate another. The way that you can love someone so immensely that without ever really meeting them, you already value their life more than your own. I’ve always had a deep respect for pregnant women, but I honestly don’t think I could have had any chance at understanding the depth of strength it takes to bring life into this world until I carried it with my own body. And I’m only twelve weeks in. 

I hear so many women talk about getting their pre pregnancy bodies back. Shrinking stomachs.  Lightening stretch marks. Erasing proof of the most miraculous thing your body has ever done. And I wish I didn’t understand the desire to “bounce back,” but I do. Even as I watch my stomach begin to swell, and my sweet baby flutters around inside of it, there is a voice in the back of my head telling me that 25 is so young to be wrinkly forever. And it’s the most ridiculous thing because the only person outside of myself who even sees my stomach is the man who sees me at my best and worst and every moment in between. Who doesn’t care whether I’ve put any effort into the way I look, or even if my hair is brushed. Who, in just the last few weeks, has comforted me after I’ve vomited everywhere, and constantly brought me water, and ice packs, and carried the weight of the world because I couldn’t even carry myself. 

I wish we could grow children without growing insecurities.

I wish we could revel in the miraculous thing that is birth without simultaneously calculating how few calories to eat to reverse-engineer ourselves into the unrealistic magazine cutouts and instagram squares. Pregnancy is literally the least glamorous thing I’ve ever done. I always hear pregnant women being told they’re glowing, and maybe they are. Maybe this strange glow comes over you at some point and people can just tell. I really don’t know. Honestly the only “glow” I’ve experienced so far is the sweat from having just thrown up, or from being so out of breath because I stood up too quickly or attempted to walk from my apartment to where my car is parked without prepping properly for the “marathon” I was about to embark on.

It’s not glamourous. It isn’t even pretty. But my goodness is it miraculous. It is the most incredible thing that one body blooms to accommodate another. That in just a few short weeks I’ll be able to feel my baby wiggle and kick and turn inside of my belly. That two hearts beat inside of me right now, and it is simultaneously the most full and most exhausted I have ever felt. If this is how I can feel about a baby the size of an apricot who’s existence I’ve only known about for 8 weeks, I cannot even fathom the love that our Heavenly Father has for us. 

I always refer back to psalm 139, but how could I resist when it comes to this. 

Verses 13-16. 

For you formed my inward parts;

you knitted me together in my mother's womb.
14 I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.
Wonderful are your works;
    my soul knows it very well.
15 My frame was not hidden from you,
when I was being made in secret,
    intricately woven in the depths of the earth.
16 Your eyes saw my unformed substance;
in your book were written, every one of them,
    the days that were formed for me,
    when as yet there was none of them.

This child that we have prayed for, waited for, hoped for, dreamed of.. is so much more than just a combination of genetics and biology. Than two lines on a pregnancy test. Than a clump of cells haphazardly thrown together.

This child has a purpose and a life already written out before them. They are being lovingly knit together by the maker of the whole universe, long before those two lines show up, or the nausea kicks in, or your belly starts to swell and balloon to accommodate life. 

I am so in awe of that.