I wrote this in October at the start of fall, but never posted it. I thought I’d share it today, as we near the start of spring. It’s amazing to see the things that have changed, the things that have stayed the same, and how our family has grown. If you find yourself in a stuck or painful season, I encourage you try out Emily P. Freeman’s practice (below!) of naming the season. It helped me process how I was feeling and see our reality, while also practicing hope and gratitude.

September was a blur. I wrote 10.3.19 down today and sat, for a moment, wondering where the month went. It was significant, but someday, I think, I will look back and barely remember the details.

I had another miscarriage on August 29. Chris ended his 10-year long job on August 30. I turned 33 a few days later. A week later, we started fertility testing. Then, the very next day, we left for our first week-long family vacation. It has been almost entirely highs and lows; a month that leaves you momentarily wondering what mundane feels like.

While at the beach, I met a girl from Indiana, who told me she was eight weeks pregnant. She said it the way only someone who has never had a miscarriage can. With confidence. Unscathed by the pain of loss, unafraid of what could happen. Like the way a younger woman talks about falling in love for the first time; never having had her heart broken. She doesn’t even know how vulnerable her position is. It’s the freest of free fall, before you know to brace for the bottom. It was beautiful and refreshing.

Hearing her say it so boldly felt like honey to my soul. I wanted her to shout it out loud. It was like sunshine and vanilla and fresh air all mixed together, pure happiness.

I’ve been deep in the miscarriage world this time around - hearing other women’s stories, comparing them to mine, mapping, counting, wondering, praying, begging, calculating. It feels like the only thing I think about and reminds me, so much, of when I was absolutely yearning to get married, with no husband in sight.

When I met Chris, I kept telling my therapist I wanted to be in free fall for him, but I was so afraid it wouldn’t work out. I was constantly bracing for impact. I knew how badly it could hurt if it all fell apart.

My friend, Robyn, told me that we are on holy ground right now. It’s a painful, formative space and we don’t know why we are in it, but, someday, we will look back and know it was sacred.

In her podcast, Emily P. Freeman encourages listeners to name the season they are in by calling out a few significant things. So I thought I’d do that, today, as we sit, waiting, waiting for a season to come.

• We are waiting and hoping for a baby.

• Chris is starting a new job.

• Mac is the most, most fun, wonderful thing we’ve ever known. He’s exploring, taking everything apart, wondering how it works.

• We are mourning what is lost and hopeful - albeit a little sheepishly - for what is to come.

• We are growing, deepening, coming together.

Today was, most likely, our last summery day. My car read 101 degrees. Saturday is a high of 65. The days are getting shorter. Mac’s room fills with darkness as I tuck him in each night. And while I’m inclined to hold on to summer forever, the darkening feels appropriate. Over the next few months, as we wait patiently for my body to be ready to conceive again, I’m praying for quietness and peace in my heart. I’m praying for trust and stillness and hope.