Here we are, approaching the Fourth of July. Four years ago, on the Fourth of July, Graeme and I took off to British Columbia for our honeymoon. Young, in love, the world was our oyster. We decided that we’d start trying to get pregnant on our honeymoon. I was naïve enough to think that I’d get pregnant. I thought it’d be so cool to have a honeymoon baby! Bless you, ego.

Needless to say, it didn’t happen. And it still hasn’t happened four years later. I sat down one afternoon to calculate how many days my arms have ached to hold our baby, to hold my own flesh and blood. When the Fourth hits, it’ll be 1,460 days. That’s a lot of days to hold space for our dream of parenthood. It makes me cry just thinking about it. The pain is intangible, but so is the growth.

Our honeymoon was incredible! We saw beautiful islands in British Columbia, met some really wonderful people in Victoria that took us sailing, saw whales, and ate fresh scallops. We talked about what we’ll name our kids, and what kind of parents we’ll be. What will we do with them? Will we take them to concerts? Canoe trips? What will they look like?

This hope and these discussions haven’t stopped. Our talks about having children and what they’ll be like have taken on a profound sense of wonderment, contemplating the ways in which we’ve grown throughout this experience and how the growth that has come will make us better parents than we would’ve been four years ago. The way that we talk to one another, the respect we have for each other and the heartfelt understanding that only the two of us know about our pain and joy has grown. Graeme has seen me crawl through some very dark days, all while holding space for me to feel the deep spaces of my suffering. He’s been a beacon of light, always supporting me and loving me in a way that I never knew I was deserving of.

Our journey isn’t over, and sometimes I feel like it’s just beginning. Going through infertility or anything of this nature forces you to respect the present moment. I’ve been thinking about our life together lately, and envisioning a future without children to love. We could buy a cute 2-bedroom home, we could travel, we could live the spontaneous, free life together until the end. I don’t mind the thought of that, but my heart and my arms ache to raise children. I want to be a mom, and Graeme wants to be a dad. We’re ready.

In April, I took a trip to Sedona over Earth Day with four amazing women, of whom I did not know very well before I went. It was an adventure full of love, support, and energetic shifts, a true gift to be a part of. While there, I found myself feeling light, joyful, and happy. Never once did I feel bitter or angry at the world, or afraid of what might come. I loved myself for who I was. I wanted to hang on to that feeling when I came home, and I tried to. Since I’ve been back, though, I’ve been in a dark place, spending time in the underworld and getting intimate with my grief.

Infertility is my greatest teacher. I fought it for so long, I didn’t want to learn to hard lessons that were and are still unfolding. I wanted to stay in my safe place where I knew who I was. Who am I becoming? What will it take to get there? How long will this take and what comes next, more transformation? (Yes!) Will all of these journeys cripple me and bring me to my knees?

The darkness is a time in the underworld, a place where we can only be guided by intuition. It’s emptiness that is essential for growth. It can either be filled with peace, or filled with terror. For me, it’s a little of both. And that’s okay.

“Becoming our fullest selves is a journey of the soul: mythical, magical, transformative. It requires of us to surface from the depths of our psyches what we may not want to see, know or feel, what we may want to reject. It is precisely our hidden grief, unspoken rage, fear, longing and unknown joy that wants to know of us our courage. Are we brave enough to own its existence within us and not exile it to places we refuse to go? You say that you want to be whole and free? First then, descend. Find the gold hidden in the dark caves of your heart and belly. This is your rite of passage home. When you truly know all of who you are, you will no longer live in avoidance and fear of your vast human nature.”

— ALisa Starkweather

I’m currently in a place of deep reflection and am creating the space to Be. Be with my thoughts, my energy, my joy, and my suffering. I understand that it is a privilege to be here, and this is something that I grapple with on top of everything else. Maybe it’s true, though, that when one person does this work it creates ripples throughout the world. I know that I need to show up as my best self in order to serve others and create change. We all do. If you need help with this or if you need someone to talk to, I’m here for you.

I know that I got off of the main topic that I started this post with. It’s all connected, right? Part of my process as my heart aches and as I spend time in the shadows is thinking about how I will show up for my children when that times comes. A lot has changed over the past four years. Graeme and I have both learned a lot of hard lessons that have made us stronger individually as well as a couple.

To our future kid(s), no matter how you’re brought into this world, through us or through adoption, please know that I will to my best to:

Never take you for granted.
Be a present mom, one that gets dirty in the mud and dances in the rain with you, no matter what time of day it is. I want to play, be imaginative, and let you be a kid.
Listen to you, always. I will honor your words, your frustrations. I will celebrate your triumphs and the joys in your life. I will grieve with you when you grieve.
Not make you conform to my ideals. You are going to be your own person and I promise to honor that. I might not always get it or understand where you’re coming from, so please be patient with me. You can help me understand and I will learn from you.
Teach you to have an open mind and to love all creatures of this Earth, no matter what color, what religion, what sexual orientation, or how many legs they have (animals). I will teach you to honor your body by nourishing yourself in sustainable ways.
Gaze at the stars with you. We can learn so much by gazing at the stars.
Walk barefoot through the grass with you, observing nature and learning from it.
Teach you to close your eyes in the summer sun and to feel the warm breeze on your face. These are sacred moments, and I promise to slow down and enjoy them with you.
Teach you to stand on your own two feet and speak up for yourself. There’s going to be people that try to bring you down. I will help you navigate the world and these people and teach you that your voice matters.
Sing and dance with you, even when you’re embarrassed by my (what I consider to be) killer moves.
Be gentle with your feelings.
Stand up for you when no one else will.
Not ask you to do things that aren’t true to who you are.
Love you fiercely, probably to the point that you get annoyed with me. But that’s just because I tried really hard to bring you here and waited for what feels like forever.

I’m going to get back to reflecting and enjoying these beautiful summer nights. Life is sweet, life is short, and life is to be cherished. It can change in an instant. Please know that if you are suffering with infertility or grieving in any way, I see you. I hold space for you. I honor you.

As far as Graeme and I go, I think the world is still our oyster. It always will be. We can get through anything together.

And so it is,
Kirsten