Merry belated Christmas, friends! I hope it's been a good one for you and your families.
I haven't blogged in a long time. It felt like I ran out of words to say. Sometimes I was busy, and sometimes I had too many balls in the air, and at other times I just had too many emotions and no way to put them on the page.
In some ways, you could say that I'm doing better than at this point last year. We moved through some of stormiest periods of grief. I put myself out into the world and had new adventures and new joys. We are probably healthier than we were at the end of 2016.
But.... it still hurts. When I look at my tree on Christmas morning, I see the shadows of the gifts that should be there, the pajamas and toys and books that my children should be opening. When I look at our stockings, I see the extra space where more stockings should be. I see my shadow life, the one we were 'supposed' to have, the one in which we have two kids and maybe a third on the way, and I feel the gut punch of knowing that will never be. I live with the awareness of that ghost life every day, but at especially at Christmas.
One of the saddest parts of our infertility is that very few people understand or share in our loss. It is unacknowledged, unseen. When I voice it, I am being 'too dramatic' or 'too negative' or I just need to 'have a little faith'. No one sees the deep wounds that I carry. People commend me for looking happier, but don't notice that I still walk a little differently because part of me is broken. There is hole in my heart. These ghosts come with me every day. I think they always will.
