As we've gotten further along in our infertility journey, I keep hoping in vain that I'll wake up and feel better about it. That I'll stop wanting it so badly, the way I stopped wanting to go to law school or play keyboards in a band (yes, really). It doesn't seem to happen that way. Some things do get easier. I stopped obsessing over random symptoms ages ago, which is helpful to my mental health. I rarely cry when some well-meaning acquaintance asks me when we're going to have kids, but the ache is there every day. I never close my eyes at night without thinking and praying and wishing for a child.
I can't help thinking that ten years from now, twenty-five years from now, fifty years from now, this ache will still be there. It's gotten harder to believe that we might conceive or adopt a child, but even if we do, I'd imagine the longing and grief of this period will be hard to forget. Thirteen years ago this week, I was a lost and angry young lady, alone in a foreign land with my family falling to pieces around me, and I grasped at a light. I sought for God and found Him. But when I think of that time, it still hurts. I cannot forget the sense of being adrift and alone. Time provides perspective, but it doesn't heal all wounds, no matter what the saying claims. I can only grasp at hope that the light is coming soon this time around.