Life after December


It’s been a little under six months since I’ve blogged anything at all. No recipes have been developed, no new destinations have been profiled… and while it would be easy to cover it up and say it’s because I’ve taken a break from it all, or I’ve been really busy with consulting work, I thought I’d shed a few layers and write what comes naturally.

Last October while holidaying on Maui, I found out that I was in the early stages of my first pregnancy. Unplanned but very much welcomed, I spent my time on the island thinking about how different life would be raising a little boy or girl. I knew things would never be the same. I knew I was in for a massive shift. I knew this thing called motherhood would have joys and challenges. But I knew I was made to be a mother, and more than anything I knew this little sesame seed sized baby was nothing short of a blessing.

Over the following months during my first trimester, I busied myself searching for a bigger place that would accommodate a growing family, plus lots more work from home. By December, we had moved into a bigger place and the real planning had begun. There was change in the air, but I thought it had something to do with Christmas and the impending shift into the New Year. Anyone who knows me can attest to the fact that Christmas is my most favourite time of the year. I love everything about it… carols, gift shopping, baking, church events, and of course decorating the tree.

But the one I believed was my best friend and soul mate, had other plans. On the eve of Christmas Eve, he ended our marriage, over the phone.

Three months pregnant and hurt beyond comprehension, I sat awake in my old bedroom at my parent’s house with a hurricane ripping through my head. My heart was shattered and I was suddenly so scared of everything. I was scared that my heartbreak would hurt my baby. I was scared of being judged. I was scared of all the feelings that overcame me… that I was disposable… replaceable… unlovable…unworthy of a love that was promised to me on an altar of God… but more than anything, I felt like I would never be enough. Because if the best of me didn't cut it, what could?

The following weeks were loaded with some of the most brutal moments I’ve ever experienced. As the news began to travel out to friends and family, the text messages and phone calls started pouring in hard and fast. Nobody expected it and everybody just wanted to do anything they could to make me feel better. The advice I was receiving started to sound like commercial radio... “take each day as it comes… look after yourself… just focus on you and the baby… make sure you’re eating… try get lots of rest… you’re not the first and you’re not the last… you’ll find love again…you’re stronger than you think…” on repeat, for months.

Maybe that repetition actually helped. I somehow grew the balls I needed to take myself away on a one-month babymoon to the USA.

Since then, I’ve experienced some of my highest highs, and my lowest lows. There have been countless nights where the pain was so sharp, that I cried breathlessly, praying that God would make me numb so I didn't have to feel that way anymore. There were days that I made an effort not to leave my bedroom till after 1:30pm, because at least half the day would already be over. Then there have been the joys, like feeling my son kick at my right side when I’d play music directly into my tummy with prenatal belly speakers… or the moment I felt him move for a solid hour while I walked the streets of Georgetown in Washington DC, as though he was walking with me.

As it turns out, the sweet life I believed to be real turned out to be bullshit. But thanks to my family and their faith, I’m not bitter. They’ve shown me what it means to really be there through the worst of it. They’ve shown me what it actually means to be family, that it's a choice that you make with your whole heart. Their constant affirmations of love and support have made the worst of it bearable. They’ve carried me and my son through the moments I thought would be the death of me. And somehow I’m still breathing.

For someone who actually believed she’d have at least 3 kids, this may very well be my only shot at motherhood. I’m down to my last four weeks of pregnancy, so I’m doing everything I can to make up for all the missed opportunities that passed me by at the start of the year. I don't know how this is going to pan out for me, and sure as anything, I don't know what direction life will take, but I do know that this little blog kept me hungry for a sweeter life… maybe if I start to give it my attention again, I’ll find that it had nothing to do with him, but everything to do with discovering a better me.