Dear Facebook,
We need to talk. I know, no one ever wants to hear those words. But, we've been spending way too much time together lately. Way too much time. I'm sorry. I just need some space to clear my head. I've been going through some rough stuff, and you just keep bringing up painful things I don't want to think about. I think it's time we go on a break. It's not you. It's me. I hope we can still be friends down the road.
Love,
Me
Ok, I'm kidding. Sort of. The past few months have been pretty rocky. My miscarriage shook me way more than I wanted to admit to anyone.
I hate being sad. I just want to get over it. I plaster on a smile, joke with friends, play with my kids. I obsess over having another baby. But it's still there, the loss, hanging out right over my shoulder. Tomorrow it will be 2 months since my miscarriage and some days I feel like I have moved 10 steps forward, and other days I feel stuck in the same old place. Milestones pop up when I least expect them. This week, for example, would have been the week we found out if we were having a boy or a girl. I've spent every morning this week sobbing in the shower.
I just don't want to feel sad anymore. But I've been learning that there are no shortcuts to grief and loss. As much as I wish there was a shortcut, sometimes we just have to walk that road until we reach the end of it. I've been doing my best to keep it together and bottled up, but some days it just spills right out. It finally took a good friend saying point blank, "Jenny, you lost your baby. That's not something you just get over." She's right. You don't get over it. You walk forward, but you don't get over it.
Being a stay at home mom, I am alone a lot of the day. I'm with my kids, of course, but there's not a lot of peer to peer interaction going on. I mean, I can only talk about the most recent episode of Bubble Guppies so many times before I feel like my head is about to explode into a billion pieces.
So it makes sense that I'd be on Facebook a decent amount. There are some days where Ben is working till late at night that literally the only interaction with other adults that I get is through Facebook. I can post about the crazy parts of my day, like the time Josh threw chili all over the dining room, not once, but twice, in the span of 5 minutes. I was home alone at the time, and could not believe what he had done. I posted the insanity to Facebook, and when people commented on it, I felt like I was not so alone in the craziness of motherhood.
I've heard that back in the day, people lived closer to one another in tightly knit communities. Moms shared the responsibility of raising kids closely with family and neighbors. I don't know when that day was, but it definitely seems different today. People are busy with their own stuff, me included. So that's where Facebook comes in. It's like a pseudo-community. We post pictures, celebrate success, and sometimes share needs too. I remember posting that I needed clothes for Josh once, and within 3 hours I had multiple bags of clothes dropped off at my door for him. There's a lot of good that social media can do.
But there's a dark side to the social media too, that a lot of people don't want to talk about. In fact, there is more and more research being done about the negative effects it can have on our lives. This research has actually linked higher episodes of depression to people who frequently use social media. The reason? Social comparison. It's the phenomenon that happens when we look at other people's lives and compare them to our own. The more we compare, the worse we feel.
It's not a new thing. In fact, there's a good reason why the 10th commandment is "thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's wife." Whether you're pining for your neighbor's wife, or maybe just his life in general, comparison never does anybody any good.
Comparison is a happiness killer. It doesn't matter whether you come out on top or not in the comparison game, someone is always on the losing end.
And, if we're honest, there is a lot about Facebook that is one big comparison game. Now, don't get me wrong, I don't think there is any reason why we should not share our joy and successes on Facebook. Genuinely celebrating one another is as close to godliness as it gets.
But, how many of us tailor our posts to paint the most perfect picture of our lives? Our kids smiling angelically, us wearing our "skinniest" outfit, pictures of our "perfect' marriage.
A lot of times, it's just an image. An image carefully crafted and presented to the world.
Because, come on, who wants to look like a hot mess in front of everyone? Not me, that's for sure.
But guess what? For the last 2 months, I have been a hot mess. Oh yes, I might post like I have my crap together, but I don't.
So, this is why I'm breaking up with Facebook. At least for the month of February. A month to reset.
Why? Because ever since I lost my baby a whole lot of other wonderful ladies have gotten the joyful news that they are expecting a baby. Most of the ones sharing lately are due within just a few weeks of when I was due.
And I have to get real with you now: when I see an ultrasound picture, or a cute picture of siblings sharing that they are getting a new baby, my heart breaks just a little bit more.
Don't get me wrong. There is nothing wrong with posting joyful news. Part of me rejoices with those friends. I am truly and sincerely happy for them. In all honesty, I hope I have a post like that to share someday soon.
But for now, seeing those posts over and over again isn't helping me heal my own broken heart. And after clicking "unfollow" more times than I can count in the last few weeks to try and hide those kinds of posts, they still keep showing up. And I find myself comparing my situation to theirs. "Why me? Why did this happen? Why do they get to have so much joy while I deal with all this pain?"
So it's time to stop pretending that everything is fine. And it's time to stop putting myself in a position to play the comparison game. Like my friend Michelle reminded me, "Jenny you just lost your baby. You don't just get over that."
She's right. I'm not over it. And comparing myself to others is only making my grief more painful.
Maybe you have been there before. I've heard that what you want the most is what you notice others having more than anything else. Like how if you want to get married you constantly are bombarded with posts sharing engagement stories. Or if all you want is a bigger house, you notice all your friends who have bigger and better homes than you. Or me, I keep noticing all the babies.
Comparison. It's a soul killer.
So I'm doing the only thing that I know how to do. I'm taking myself out of the comparison game for a while. My goal is to refocus, live in the moment, and be more content.
God has a plan for my life. What it is, I don't always understand. Or trust. Or like. But it's there. And I believe it is a good plan. It's no one else's plan. Just mine. But if I keep comparing it to His plan for somebody else, I'm never going to be happy.
So, Facebook, we're going on a break. Don't take it too personal. It's not you, it's me. And when I'm ready, I'll be back.
Tuesday, February 2, 2016
Saturday, January 2, 2016
Miscarriage: One Month Later
It's been one month since my miscarriage. In some ways, its been the longest month of my life. In other ways, I can hardly believe it's already been a whole month since it happened.
A lot of people have been asking how I am doing. It's a hard question to answer because the answer is a fluid one. It changes weekly, daily, sometimes hourly. I'm doing ok, but I'm grieving.
I think one of the hardest parts about miscarriage is that after it happens, nothing changes. My life after the miscarriage looks exactly like it did before it happened. I'm a mom to two kids. I take care of them all day. Ben goes to work. He comes home. We argue about housework. We say "I love you." We laugh at the kids. We eat dinner as a family. I yell at the dog.
Nothing is different.
Except it is. I'm carrying around a wound that no one can see. It's a wound that runs into the deepest part of my soul and yet remains buried under my smile.
Grief.
It's an isolating experience, grief. It's like a broken arm, but there is no visible cast for people to recognize and extend empathy towards.
A few days after the miscarriage, I decided I needed a break from being home. I wanted to get out and breathe fresh air, and do something "normal." So I took Abby Christmas shopping with me. I did pretty well in the store. Even when we walked past the baby clothes, and she asked if we could get something for our next baby, and I had to gently remind her that the "next baby" isn't happening for a while, I kept it together. I was feeling like, "Ok, maybe I'm going to handle this thing."
And then, all the sudden, we were in the checkout line. I was paying for Ben's gifts, and the woman at the cash register was making pleasantries with me, chatting about the busy holiday season. And I was looking at her, and I was suddenly thinking "I don't care about anything you are saying. None of this matters. I wish you knew how sad I am." Tears, out of nowhere, began to well up and I desperately wanted to blurt out "I just had a miscarriage" to this woman I've never met. I wanted to say, "I'm grieving. This is so hard." I had to bite my tongue and force myself to take some deep breaths. Thankfully, for both our sakes, I didn't say it. I can only imagine how awkward that would have been.
But that's the thing about grief. It isn't constant or predictable. It comes in waves. Sometimes small ripples, sometimes giant tsumanis that threaten to crush you on the spot. You never know when they're coming. One minute you're buying your husband some sweatpants. The next you want to hug a Kohl's cashier and cry your eyes out. There's no pattern to it, and there's no choice but to ride whatever wave comes next.
I've read that there are 5 stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. I have grieved a lot in the past year. More than I would have liked. And I can say I think calling it "stages of grief" is entirely misleading. To me, the word "stages" suggests that we somehow move through them in a forward motion. Like you move from denial, to anger, and eventually acceptance, leaving the other stages behind you as move onto the next one.
Grief is not like that. Grief is more like a huge ball of tangled threads. You start to untangle one knot, only to discover that it doesn't lead anywhere, so you begin to work on another knot, not knowing if you're making any progress at all, and at the end of the night, you might have a slightly less tangled mess, but it isn't fixed.
I'm a slightly less tangled mess than I was a month ago.
I've learned a lot, though, about miscarriage.
I've learned that miscarriage is not so much an event, as it is a process. Yes, your pregnancy ends quickly, whether through a natural miscarriage or through a D&C. But the process of becoming un-pregnant takes a whole lot longer than that. Even after I lost the baby, I couldn't fit into any of my pre-pregnancy pants. I was already in maternity clothes by the time I miscarried. I found myself digging through my drawers to try and find the pants I wore after the births of my other two children. The "in between" pants. Only this time, I had nothing to show for the pounds I'd gained. And every time I tried, prematurely, to squeeze into my regular pre-pregnancy jeans, I was reminded of what I no longer had.
Becoming un-pregnant is whiplash for your mind. You go from avoiding alcohol, avoiding sushi, taking prenatal vitamins, to waking up the next day and the rules are out the window. You can do anything you want. Except you don't want to do any of them. Because you'd rather still be pregnant. My dear friend came to visit just before Christmas, and she took me out to dinner. And we ordered champagne. And the waitress asked me, "What are you celebrating?" I stared up at her. Speechless. My friend quickly jumped in with some vague answer. But there I was. Looking at the waitress. Thinking, "I'm not celebrating. I'm grieving."
I've learned that grief is complicated. Sometimes it looks like celebrating. I've been celebrating a lot lately. Celebrating what I do have, so that I don't drown in the grief of what I don't have. Every morning, for a couple weeks after the miscarriage, I'd make coffee, put on Christmas music, and the kids would put on wild dance parties for me. They'd sing, make up words, dance around, make me laugh. And I soaked it up. And I joined them. Laughing and twirling with my beautiful babies. Their joy being my joy when I couldn't find mine. Celebrating them. Wishing I still had my third baby inside me as I danced. Grieving. All mixed up at the same time.
I've learned that I am not alone in this experience. Did you know that 1 out of 4 women has had a miscarriage? Think of the 4 women closest to you in your life. I'll bet one of them has lost a baby. I'll bet even if you don't think any of them has lost a baby, it's likely that the one of them who has just keeps it closer to her heart, and hasn't told others about her loss. After I posted my blog last month, I can't begin to tell you how many private messages I received from other women. Messages saying, "I don't share this with many people, but I've lost a baby too."
Messages not filled with advice. Or pat answers. Or false hope. Or perfect responses. Just messages saying, "Me too."
"Me too." Two of the most powerful words in the English language. Simple words, and yet more powerful in bringing me healing than any other. Me too. It means "I know your pain." It means "There is hope for tomorrow." It means "I can't fix it, but I am here."
The day I took Abby Christmas shopping, my grandmother called me while I was walking to my car. I hadn't been answering the phone for anyone for a few days. But when I saw it was my grandma, I decided to take the call. My grandma is one of the toughest women you'll ever meet. Mother of four, head nurse at a hospital, lived through the Great Depression. Even in her seventies she'd hike miles away, cut down her own Christmas tree from the field, and drag it back to her house single handledly. She never wastes, or minces, words. When she talks, it's because she really means what she's saying.
So I answered the phone. She said that my mom had told her about my loss, and then she began to tell me a story I'd never heard before. She told me that many years ago, she also lost her third baby. Just like me, the first three months had gone just fine. Until suddenly, she went to the doctor, and things weren't fine anymore. "Just one of those things," the doctor told her. She said it was hard. And then she told me something remarkable. She said, "It was hard. But I waited on the Lord. And after I waited a while, patiently, He rewarded me with another baby. And that baby was your mother."
"Me too."
My grandmother lost a baby, and then became pregnant with another. And that baby was my mother. And had she not lost that baby, she perhaps would not have had my mom. And then perhaps you would not be reading this blog.
I've learned that God is working out this situation. Just as he worked out my grandma's. He is working it out in me, though it is a painful process.
I have happy moments. Happy days. I have incredibly sad moments. Sad days. I've connected with old friends, and new friends, because we this share experience, who walk with me through all of those moments.
I'm doing ok. I don't know what tomorrow holds, but I know what I have today. And for now, that's enough.
And if you are walking through this now, or you might walk through this one day, I want you to know something.
Me too. I am here. I'm with you. And I know your pain.
His mercies are new every morning.
A lot of people have been asking how I am doing. It's a hard question to answer because the answer is a fluid one. It changes weekly, daily, sometimes hourly. I'm doing ok, but I'm grieving.
I think one of the hardest parts about miscarriage is that after it happens, nothing changes. My life after the miscarriage looks exactly like it did before it happened. I'm a mom to two kids. I take care of them all day. Ben goes to work. He comes home. We argue about housework. We say "I love you." We laugh at the kids. We eat dinner as a family. I yell at the dog.
Nothing is different.
Except it is. I'm carrying around a wound that no one can see. It's a wound that runs into the deepest part of my soul and yet remains buried under my smile.
Grief.
It's an isolating experience, grief. It's like a broken arm, but there is no visible cast for people to recognize and extend empathy towards.
A few days after the miscarriage, I decided I needed a break from being home. I wanted to get out and breathe fresh air, and do something "normal." So I took Abby Christmas shopping with me. I did pretty well in the store. Even when we walked past the baby clothes, and she asked if we could get something for our next baby, and I had to gently remind her that the "next baby" isn't happening for a while, I kept it together. I was feeling like, "Ok, maybe I'm going to handle this thing."
And then, all the sudden, we were in the checkout line. I was paying for Ben's gifts, and the woman at the cash register was making pleasantries with me, chatting about the busy holiday season. And I was looking at her, and I was suddenly thinking "I don't care about anything you are saying. None of this matters. I wish you knew how sad I am." Tears, out of nowhere, began to well up and I desperately wanted to blurt out "I just had a miscarriage" to this woman I've never met. I wanted to say, "I'm grieving. This is so hard." I had to bite my tongue and force myself to take some deep breaths. Thankfully, for both our sakes, I didn't say it. I can only imagine how awkward that would have been.
But that's the thing about grief. It isn't constant or predictable. It comes in waves. Sometimes small ripples, sometimes giant tsumanis that threaten to crush you on the spot. You never know when they're coming. One minute you're buying your husband some sweatpants. The next you want to hug a Kohl's cashier and cry your eyes out. There's no pattern to it, and there's no choice but to ride whatever wave comes next.
I've read that there are 5 stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. I have grieved a lot in the past year. More than I would have liked. And I can say I think calling it "stages of grief" is entirely misleading. To me, the word "stages" suggests that we somehow move through them in a forward motion. Like you move from denial, to anger, and eventually acceptance, leaving the other stages behind you as move onto the next one.
Grief is not like that. Grief is more like a huge ball of tangled threads. You start to untangle one knot, only to discover that it doesn't lead anywhere, so you begin to work on another knot, not knowing if you're making any progress at all, and at the end of the night, you might have a slightly less tangled mess, but it isn't fixed.
I'm a slightly less tangled mess than I was a month ago.
I've learned a lot, though, about miscarriage.
I've learned that miscarriage is not so much an event, as it is a process. Yes, your pregnancy ends quickly, whether through a natural miscarriage or through a D&C. But the process of becoming un-pregnant takes a whole lot longer than that. Even after I lost the baby, I couldn't fit into any of my pre-pregnancy pants. I was already in maternity clothes by the time I miscarried. I found myself digging through my drawers to try and find the pants I wore after the births of my other two children. The "in between" pants. Only this time, I had nothing to show for the pounds I'd gained. And every time I tried, prematurely, to squeeze into my regular pre-pregnancy jeans, I was reminded of what I no longer had.
Becoming un-pregnant is whiplash for your mind. You go from avoiding alcohol, avoiding sushi, taking prenatal vitamins, to waking up the next day and the rules are out the window. You can do anything you want. Except you don't want to do any of them. Because you'd rather still be pregnant. My dear friend came to visit just before Christmas, and she took me out to dinner. And we ordered champagne. And the waitress asked me, "What are you celebrating?" I stared up at her. Speechless. My friend quickly jumped in with some vague answer. But there I was. Looking at the waitress. Thinking, "I'm not celebrating. I'm grieving."
I've learned that grief is complicated. Sometimes it looks like celebrating. I've been celebrating a lot lately. Celebrating what I do have, so that I don't drown in the grief of what I don't have. Every morning, for a couple weeks after the miscarriage, I'd make coffee, put on Christmas music, and the kids would put on wild dance parties for me. They'd sing, make up words, dance around, make me laugh. And I soaked it up. And I joined them. Laughing and twirling with my beautiful babies. Their joy being my joy when I couldn't find mine. Celebrating them. Wishing I still had my third baby inside me as I danced. Grieving. All mixed up at the same time.
I've learned that I am not alone in this experience. Did you know that 1 out of 4 women has had a miscarriage? Think of the 4 women closest to you in your life. I'll bet one of them has lost a baby. I'll bet even if you don't think any of them has lost a baby, it's likely that the one of them who has just keeps it closer to her heart, and hasn't told others about her loss. After I posted my blog last month, I can't begin to tell you how many private messages I received from other women. Messages saying, "I don't share this with many people, but I've lost a baby too."
Messages not filled with advice. Or pat answers. Or false hope. Or perfect responses. Just messages saying, "Me too."
"Me too." Two of the most powerful words in the English language. Simple words, and yet more powerful in bringing me healing than any other. Me too. It means "I know your pain." It means "There is hope for tomorrow." It means "I can't fix it, but I am here."
The day I took Abby Christmas shopping, my grandmother called me while I was walking to my car. I hadn't been answering the phone for anyone for a few days. But when I saw it was my grandma, I decided to take the call. My grandma is one of the toughest women you'll ever meet. Mother of four, head nurse at a hospital, lived through the Great Depression. Even in her seventies she'd hike miles away, cut down her own Christmas tree from the field, and drag it back to her house single handledly. She never wastes, or minces, words. When she talks, it's because she really means what she's saying.
So I answered the phone. She said that my mom had told her about my loss, and then she began to tell me a story I'd never heard before. She told me that many years ago, she also lost her third baby. Just like me, the first three months had gone just fine. Until suddenly, she went to the doctor, and things weren't fine anymore. "Just one of those things," the doctor told her. She said it was hard. And then she told me something remarkable. She said, "It was hard. But I waited on the Lord. And after I waited a while, patiently, He rewarded me with another baby. And that baby was your mother."
"Me too."
My grandmother lost a baby, and then became pregnant with another. And that baby was my mother. And had she not lost that baby, she perhaps would not have had my mom. And then perhaps you would not be reading this blog.
I've learned that God is working out this situation. Just as he worked out my grandma's. He is working it out in me, though it is a painful process.
I have happy moments. Happy days. I have incredibly sad moments. Sad days. I've connected with old friends, and new friends, because we this share experience, who walk with me through all of those moments.
I'm doing ok. I don't know what tomorrow holds, but I know what I have today. And for now, that's enough.
And if you are walking through this now, or you might walk through this one day, I want you to know something.
Me too. I am here. I'm with you. And I know your pain.
His mercies are new every morning.
Friday, December 4, 2015
I Lost My Baby Yesterday
As I sit down to write this, I don't really know where to begin. This is the most personal blog I have ever written. I'm sitting here, staring at the screen, listening to Ed Sheeran playing in the background. My little boy is upstairs sleeping. It's a sunny day.
Where do I begin?
I lost my baby yesterday.
When I woke up yesterday morning I was pregnant with our third child.
When I woke up this morning I wasn't pregnant anymore.
This will come as surprise to most of you. We hadn't told many people we were expecting again.
This baby came as a surprise. We had talked about having a third, but it wasn't really something we were trying for. I found out in October, in the middle of our Disney vacation, that I was pregnant. I'd been feeling symptoms for a few days, and took a test right there in the hotel. We were surprised, but elated. Overjoyed.
With it being my third, I started showing right away. We wanted to wait to tell Abby our news until after I'd had my first ultrasound. But the doctor was booked solid until December, and it became impossible to hide. Without us ever saying a word to her, she started remarking on how big my belly was getting. "There's a baby in there! I know it!" she would say to me. She even started kissing my belly and saying, "Hello baby! I know you are in there!"
We broke down and told her yes, there was a baby growing in there. Even at that time, I had thoughts of "What if I lose this baby? What will I tell her then?" I have never miscarried before, but the fear was nagging me.
My pregnancy continued uneventfully. I had the usual morning sickness, fatigue, and an ever growing abdomen. No signs that anything was amiss. Abby and I did "baby yoga" together in the afternoons. She kissed my belly goodnight with a "Goodnight baby, I love you" every night.
Yesterday I went in for an ultrasound. It was going to be the first time we would see a picture of our baby. The night before, I'd had an overwhelming fear that I can't really explain. I even told my friend on the phone, "I am so afraid there might not be a heartbeat." She thought I was crazy. I can understand why... there was no reason to believe the worst. And yet I couldn't shake it.
I was driving to the doctor yesterday morning, and for the first time in months, I started to pray. I've questioned so much about God and faith lately. And yet yesterday, I found myself truly praying. I said, "God, I have no idea what is ahead. I have a bad feeling. I don't even feel like I can pray to ask that things will be ok. I don't know what to pray for."
And in that moment, I heard God, almost audibly. The loudest I have ever heard Him before. And He said one word. "Emmanuel."
Emmanuel. God is with us. He said, "No matter what happens today, I am with you."
And in that moment I started crying. Before I even reached the doctor's office. I told myself this was silly. Things would be fine. Things are always fine. What was I so worked up about? This is a happy day, my first ultrasound.
I met Ben at the doctor's office. We went in, met the doctor, talked about my health history, cracked some jokes, talked about my plan for this pregnancy.
And then the doctor had me lay back, and she placed the ultrasound probe inside of me. I looked at the screen. I saw the small shape of a baby, but it wasn't moving. With my last two babies, when I saw them on ultrasound, they were always moving.
In that instant, I knew. The baby on that screen, my baby, was not alive anymore.
I turned and looked at the doctor's face. She was trying so hard not to give anything away. She kept moving the probe, trying to get a better look. But her face said it all.
It was at that moment that I almost felt like I left my own body. I floated up above the room, and watched the rest take place, like a foggy dream that couldn't really be my life.
She pointed to the screen and said, "This is normally where I would see a heartbeat, but I don't see one. The baby is only measuring about 8 weeks."
I was 11 weeks along. Somewhere around week 8, things went wrong.
I turned to look at Ben. I will never forget the look on his face. The sadness. The pain. My heart broke into a billion pieces just looking at him. It was his baby too.
The doctor pulled out the probe, and turned on the lights. What happened next is a blur. She explained a lot of things, about chromosomal abnormalities and how none of this was my fault. And how now we would have to talk about the next steps, because my body hadn't recognized for a number of weeks that the baby was not alive anymore.
I stared at her, willing myself to be strong. Willing myself not to cry. Trying so hard to focus on what she was saying so I wouldn't hear the voice inside of me saying, "Your baby is gone."
Even now I can hardly type this through the tears. It's literally the worst moment you can imagine. All the sudden you have to not only grapple with the fact that your baby has died, but you have to decide how you're going to get it out of you. No matter what you decide, it is horrific.
I was faced with two choices. I could either schedule a procedure to have the baby removed, or I could take some medication so that I could pass all of the tissue at home. That's a euphemistic way of saying take some pills so you can go home and bleed more than you ever thought was possible.
I chose the latter. I didn't want to wait for an opening in the schedule for a procedure, and the pills were the least invasive.
The doctor was wonderful and compassionate. She has been through this herself. She answered the questions that I asked her 5 times in a row because my brain wasn't working. She was patient and kind.
I walked numbly out of the office. I don't even know how I drove home. But I did.
My biggest concern was for Abby. She is an exceptionally perceptive and sensitive 4 (almost 5) year old. When our dog died in February, she mourned more deeply that I could have ever imagined. I wanted more than anything to protect her from experiencing that kind of grief again.
Ben and I agreed we would not use the language of death in explaining this to Abby. As much as this was a baby to Ben and I, we needed this not to be the death of a baby for our precious daughter. So, when I got home, I told her this:
"Abby, mommy has some hard news. We found out at the doctor today that the baby we thought was inside mommy was not a baby. It was a broken seed that was trying to grow into a baby, but because it was broken, it couldn't grow. The broken seed made mommy's body think there was a baby in there, and that's why my belly grew so much. As long as this broken seed is inside of mommy, we can't grow a baby in there. So the doctor's have given me some medicine so the broken seed will leave my body, and so that one day we can get a new seed that can grow into a real baby."
Her eyes welled up with tears. But she didn't break down. She was disappointed. She asked, "Why did this happen?" I told the truth. I have no idea why this happened. But when I told her we would try again one day for another seed to grow, she smiled.
She's come back and asked some questions since then. Mostly wondering why the seed was broken, and why we didn't know for so long. But overall she has done well with it. It's my biggest relief in all of this.
Ben took the rest of the day off of work while I waited for the medicine to begin working. It was an agonizing wait. I felt so many emotions. I wanted it to work as fast as possible. But I knew that once it worked, I really and truly would be empty inside.
If you've never been through a miscarriage, or aren't extremely close to someone who has, you may not know how horrific it is. It is horrific. You sit and wait, then the cramps come, you bleed more than any living human ever should, and then you lose your baby, and you know it. I want so badly to forget that part. So badly. But I never, ever, will forget it. I'm telling you this so that when you meet someone who has had a miscarriage, or someone close to you goes through one, you really know what they mean.
I spent the night with a fever and chills. It was this bizarre mix of grief and relief once the medicine worked. We spent the night in my bed, the four of us, watching Christmas movies and cuddling. Abby would rub my belly from time to time, kiss it, and say, "Are you feeling any better mommy?" Oh how I love her.
I woke up this morning, and I felt really empty. In the quiet of the morning, before the kids were up, I laid there and wondered if I would ever be able to get out of bed again. I placed my hand on my strangely flat stomach and thought about how my baby was gone. I closed my eyes and breathed. It took all my energy just to breathe.
Moments later, my door burst open, and Joshua ran into my room, pantless. He yelled "I pooped in my bed mommy!!!!"
God bless that child.
If it weren't for him, I don't think I would have gotten out of bed today.
Thankfully, it wasn't as bad as he claimed. He had just taken off his wet diaper, and there was no mess. Praise the Lord for that.
Miscarriage is a hard thing to talk about. It's even harder to experience first hand. Everyone has their opinions on when to share pregnancy news. I'm glad I shared when I did with the people that knew, our close family and friends. I'm glad because for those 11 weeks that I was pregnant, I got to celebrate the life of my baby. And now that I have lost my baby, those closest to me share the burden of my grief, which helps. This grief would be crushing if I were to bear it alone.
I've been overwhelmed with the love those closest to us have shown, in less than 24 hours. My best friend sent a huge order of my favorite hoagies to our house last night. And a giant tray of cookies. I had cookies for dinner. And breakfast. I might have them for lunch too. Cookies help.
Our family has sent us flowers. Friends have sent multiple texts, knowing that I do much better with writing than with talking. This all helps.
Our baby was real. From the moment I knew I was pregnant, it was real. And so this is a very real loss. The loss of a baby, a dream, an imagined future.
And yet, this is also not the end of the story. When the time is right, we will try again.
I am filled with so many emotions. I feel like someone has just thrown a deck of 100 cards at me, all with a different emotion on them, and I am trying to catch them all. Anger, grief, denial, fear, guilt, hope. All muddled up together.
I'm trying to be strong for my kids. They really do make it better. When I look at them, I can only think about how unbelievably blessed I am to be their mom. And then I step into the shower, and I am by myself, and I sob uncontrollably. Or today, I was making lunch for Abby, and she was prattling on about something, and I thought I was listening, until I heard her saying, "MOM! MOM! ARE YOU LISTENING?!!" and I realize I'm a million miles away, thinking about my baby that's gone.
I have experienced a lot of loss this year. My dog died. My grandfather died. My baby died. There are moments when I feel like I can't take anything else.
And then I hear it. "Emmanuel."
I am with you.
I don't know how that helps, but it does.
He is with me.
This is not the end of my story.
The next few days and weeks feel like a huge black tunnel to me. Dark inside, with obstacles laying everywhere that I can't see, waiting to trip me. There's light at the end, but I don't know how to get there.
If you know me well at all, you know that I hate to cry. At least, I hate to cry in front of people. I also hate to cry on the phone. So I'm not answering the phone for a while. I can't. I have to save every single ounce of my functioning self for my children. So here is my blog. This is what happened to me. Grieve with me. It helps. Think of me. It helps. Speak kindness to me. It helps. Save advice. It doesn't usually help. Just read this blog. That helps.
I'll end with a letter to my precious one, because that seems like the only appropriate ending to this whole thing.
Dear Baby,
Before I even knew you were inside of me, I loved you and wanted you. We have talked and dreamed about Baby #3 for a while now. You were such a surprise to us. Everyone told us it was Disney magic. I think it was too. A little pixie dust that gave us magic for 11 weeks.
I didn't get to hold you, or breathe in your sweet baby smell. I didn't even get to find out if you were a boy or girl. But it doesn't matter. I knew you.
You loved strawberry smoothies and Greek food. I made sure to spoil you with plenty of both. I'll think of you every time I eat either of those now.
You were so dearly loved by your big sister. She would kiss my belly every morning and say, "Good morning baby!" And she would kiss it every night and tell you how much she loved you. Today when she saw how small my stomach looked, she lifted my shirt, kissed my belly and whispered, "Goodbye baby."
Goodbye baby. I miss you already. Fly away my sweet angel, until we meet again one day.
Love,
Mommy
Where do I begin?
I lost my baby yesterday.
When I woke up yesterday morning I was pregnant with our third child.
When I woke up this morning I wasn't pregnant anymore.
This will come as surprise to most of you. We hadn't told many people we were expecting again.
This baby came as a surprise. We had talked about having a third, but it wasn't really something we were trying for. I found out in October, in the middle of our Disney vacation, that I was pregnant. I'd been feeling symptoms for a few days, and took a test right there in the hotel. We were surprised, but elated. Overjoyed.
With it being my third, I started showing right away. We wanted to wait to tell Abby our news until after I'd had my first ultrasound. But the doctor was booked solid until December, and it became impossible to hide. Without us ever saying a word to her, she started remarking on how big my belly was getting. "There's a baby in there! I know it!" she would say to me. She even started kissing my belly and saying, "Hello baby! I know you are in there!"
We broke down and told her yes, there was a baby growing in there. Even at that time, I had thoughts of "What if I lose this baby? What will I tell her then?" I have never miscarried before, but the fear was nagging me.
My pregnancy continued uneventfully. I had the usual morning sickness, fatigue, and an ever growing abdomen. No signs that anything was amiss. Abby and I did "baby yoga" together in the afternoons. She kissed my belly goodnight with a "Goodnight baby, I love you" every night.
Yesterday I went in for an ultrasound. It was going to be the first time we would see a picture of our baby. The night before, I'd had an overwhelming fear that I can't really explain. I even told my friend on the phone, "I am so afraid there might not be a heartbeat." She thought I was crazy. I can understand why... there was no reason to believe the worst. And yet I couldn't shake it.
I was driving to the doctor yesterday morning, and for the first time in months, I started to pray. I've questioned so much about God and faith lately. And yet yesterday, I found myself truly praying. I said, "God, I have no idea what is ahead. I have a bad feeling. I don't even feel like I can pray to ask that things will be ok. I don't know what to pray for."
And in that moment, I heard God, almost audibly. The loudest I have ever heard Him before. And He said one word. "Emmanuel."
Emmanuel. God is with us. He said, "No matter what happens today, I am with you."
And in that moment I started crying. Before I even reached the doctor's office. I told myself this was silly. Things would be fine. Things are always fine. What was I so worked up about? This is a happy day, my first ultrasound.
I met Ben at the doctor's office. We went in, met the doctor, talked about my health history, cracked some jokes, talked about my plan for this pregnancy.
And then the doctor had me lay back, and she placed the ultrasound probe inside of me. I looked at the screen. I saw the small shape of a baby, but it wasn't moving. With my last two babies, when I saw them on ultrasound, they were always moving.
In that instant, I knew. The baby on that screen, my baby, was not alive anymore.
I turned and looked at the doctor's face. She was trying so hard not to give anything away. She kept moving the probe, trying to get a better look. But her face said it all.
It was at that moment that I almost felt like I left my own body. I floated up above the room, and watched the rest take place, like a foggy dream that couldn't really be my life.
She pointed to the screen and said, "This is normally where I would see a heartbeat, but I don't see one. The baby is only measuring about 8 weeks."
I was 11 weeks along. Somewhere around week 8, things went wrong.
I turned to look at Ben. I will never forget the look on his face. The sadness. The pain. My heart broke into a billion pieces just looking at him. It was his baby too.
The doctor pulled out the probe, and turned on the lights. What happened next is a blur. She explained a lot of things, about chromosomal abnormalities and how none of this was my fault. And how now we would have to talk about the next steps, because my body hadn't recognized for a number of weeks that the baby was not alive anymore.
I stared at her, willing myself to be strong. Willing myself not to cry. Trying so hard to focus on what she was saying so I wouldn't hear the voice inside of me saying, "Your baby is gone."
Even now I can hardly type this through the tears. It's literally the worst moment you can imagine. All the sudden you have to not only grapple with the fact that your baby has died, but you have to decide how you're going to get it out of you. No matter what you decide, it is horrific.
I was faced with two choices. I could either schedule a procedure to have the baby removed, or I could take some medication so that I could pass all of the tissue at home. That's a euphemistic way of saying take some pills so you can go home and bleed more than you ever thought was possible.
I chose the latter. I didn't want to wait for an opening in the schedule for a procedure, and the pills were the least invasive.
The doctor was wonderful and compassionate. She has been through this herself. She answered the questions that I asked her 5 times in a row because my brain wasn't working. She was patient and kind.
I walked numbly out of the office. I don't even know how I drove home. But I did.
My biggest concern was for Abby. She is an exceptionally perceptive and sensitive 4 (almost 5) year old. When our dog died in February, she mourned more deeply that I could have ever imagined. I wanted more than anything to protect her from experiencing that kind of grief again.
Ben and I agreed we would not use the language of death in explaining this to Abby. As much as this was a baby to Ben and I, we needed this not to be the death of a baby for our precious daughter. So, when I got home, I told her this:
"Abby, mommy has some hard news. We found out at the doctor today that the baby we thought was inside mommy was not a baby. It was a broken seed that was trying to grow into a baby, but because it was broken, it couldn't grow. The broken seed made mommy's body think there was a baby in there, and that's why my belly grew so much. As long as this broken seed is inside of mommy, we can't grow a baby in there. So the doctor's have given me some medicine so the broken seed will leave my body, and so that one day we can get a new seed that can grow into a real baby."
Her eyes welled up with tears. But she didn't break down. She was disappointed. She asked, "Why did this happen?" I told the truth. I have no idea why this happened. But when I told her we would try again one day for another seed to grow, she smiled.
She's come back and asked some questions since then. Mostly wondering why the seed was broken, and why we didn't know for so long. But overall she has done well with it. It's my biggest relief in all of this.
Ben took the rest of the day off of work while I waited for the medicine to begin working. It was an agonizing wait. I felt so many emotions. I wanted it to work as fast as possible. But I knew that once it worked, I really and truly would be empty inside.
If you've never been through a miscarriage, or aren't extremely close to someone who has, you may not know how horrific it is. It is horrific. You sit and wait, then the cramps come, you bleed more than any living human ever should, and then you lose your baby, and you know it. I want so badly to forget that part. So badly. But I never, ever, will forget it. I'm telling you this so that when you meet someone who has had a miscarriage, or someone close to you goes through one, you really know what they mean.
I spent the night with a fever and chills. It was this bizarre mix of grief and relief once the medicine worked. We spent the night in my bed, the four of us, watching Christmas movies and cuddling. Abby would rub my belly from time to time, kiss it, and say, "Are you feeling any better mommy?" Oh how I love her.
I woke up this morning, and I felt really empty. In the quiet of the morning, before the kids were up, I laid there and wondered if I would ever be able to get out of bed again. I placed my hand on my strangely flat stomach and thought about how my baby was gone. I closed my eyes and breathed. It took all my energy just to breathe.
Moments later, my door burst open, and Joshua ran into my room, pantless. He yelled "I pooped in my bed mommy!!!!"
God bless that child.
If it weren't for him, I don't think I would have gotten out of bed today.
Thankfully, it wasn't as bad as he claimed. He had just taken off his wet diaper, and there was no mess. Praise the Lord for that.
Miscarriage is a hard thing to talk about. It's even harder to experience first hand. Everyone has their opinions on when to share pregnancy news. I'm glad I shared when I did with the people that knew, our close family and friends. I'm glad because for those 11 weeks that I was pregnant, I got to celebrate the life of my baby. And now that I have lost my baby, those closest to me share the burden of my grief, which helps. This grief would be crushing if I were to bear it alone.
I've been overwhelmed with the love those closest to us have shown, in less than 24 hours. My best friend sent a huge order of my favorite hoagies to our house last night. And a giant tray of cookies. I had cookies for dinner. And breakfast. I might have them for lunch too. Cookies help.
Our family has sent us flowers. Friends have sent multiple texts, knowing that I do much better with writing than with talking. This all helps.
Our baby was real. From the moment I knew I was pregnant, it was real. And so this is a very real loss. The loss of a baby, a dream, an imagined future.
And yet, this is also not the end of the story. When the time is right, we will try again.
I am filled with so many emotions. I feel like someone has just thrown a deck of 100 cards at me, all with a different emotion on them, and I am trying to catch them all. Anger, grief, denial, fear, guilt, hope. All muddled up together.
I'm trying to be strong for my kids. They really do make it better. When I look at them, I can only think about how unbelievably blessed I am to be their mom. And then I step into the shower, and I am by myself, and I sob uncontrollably. Or today, I was making lunch for Abby, and she was prattling on about something, and I thought I was listening, until I heard her saying, "MOM! MOM! ARE YOU LISTENING?!!" and I realize I'm a million miles away, thinking about my baby that's gone.
I have experienced a lot of loss this year. My dog died. My grandfather died. My baby died. There are moments when I feel like I can't take anything else.
And then I hear it. "Emmanuel."
I am with you.
I don't know how that helps, but it does.
He is with me.
This is not the end of my story.
The next few days and weeks feel like a huge black tunnel to me. Dark inside, with obstacles laying everywhere that I can't see, waiting to trip me. There's light at the end, but I don't know how to get there.
If you know me well at all, you know that I hate to cry. At least, I hate to cry in front of people. I also hate to cry on the phone. So I'm not answering the phone for a while. I can't. I have to save every single ounce of my functioning self for my children. So here is my blog. This is what happened to me. Grieve with me. It helps. Think of me. It helps. Speak kindness to me. It helps. Save advice. It doesn't usually help. Just read this blog. That helps.
I'll end with a letter to my precious one, because that seems like the only appropriate ending to this whole thing.
Dear Baby,
Before I even knew you were inside of me, I loved you and wanted you. We have talked and dreamed about Baby #3 for a while now. You were such a surprise to us. Everyone told us it was Disney magic. I think it was too. A little pixie dust that gave us magic for 11 weeks.
I didn't get to hold you, or breathe in your sweet baby smell. I didn't even get to find out if you were a boy or girl. But it doesn't matter. I knew you.
You loved strawberry smoothies and Greek food. I made sure to spoil you with plenty of both. I'll think of you every time I eat either of those now.
You were so dearly loved by your big sister. She would kiss my belly every morning and say, "Good morning baby!" And she would kiss it every night and tell you how much she loved you. Today when she saw how small my stomach looked, she lifted my shirt, kissed my belly and whispered, "Goodbye baby."
Goodbye baby. I miss you already. Fly away my sweet angel, until we meet again one day.
Love,
Mommy
Wednesday, September 9, 2015
Preschool: I changed my mind (sort of)
I can hardly believe it. It is 2:00 in the afternoon and I am sitting here surrounded by.... silence. My son is upstairs napping. The dog is snoring in her crate. And my daughter... is off to preschool!
Yes, that's right, my little girl is off to pre-k for the very first time! A lot of you remember my post last year about opting out of preschool. I made the conscious decision last year not to send Abby to a traditional preschool, but instead to homeschool her myself. We had a wonderful, flexible, fun year.
We learned all kinds of things at home last year. We worked on learning the days of the week with a simple calendar from the school supply store. We practiced motor skill development by cutting out shapes from construction paper to "decorate" the house. Abby learned to write her name by practicing writing "letters" to her friends and sending them in the mail. And the best part (at least for me anyway!) was that it didn't feel like "school."
I'll be honest, I didn't set a "schedule" and we didn't purposely work on a skill every day. But we did read a lot, and had a lot of fun playing together. And in the end, I think it was the absolute best decision I could have made.
And I would have made the same decision this year as well. In fact, I was fully planning on keeping her home with me again this year.
But then...
Life happened.
My husband got a new job. We moved almost 2 hours away. I don't know anyone here. And neither does Abby. She misses her old friends from the neighborhood, and church, and dance class. We miss our community.
So I was faced with a totally new situation this year.
I'll admit, I felt a little pressure to homeschool her again. Mostly because I felt like other parents would ask me, "Wait a minute, I thought you were all about keeping her at home? Did you change your mind?"
And, well, I suppose, yes, this year I did change my mind. There were a lot of factors to consider. Putting Abby in a traditional preschool program meant that she would have instant friends. It also meant I would meet some moms in the area. And it would provide a much needed structure to our life that has been in upheaval for the past three months.
One huge (and wonderful) surprise is that preschool here costs HALF of what it did in our old neighborhood. So I can (almost) afford it. It is still a stretch, but one that I am able to make this year, unlike last year.
And I suppose my change of heart this year is part of the beauty of parenting. You do what works for your child, in your circumstances, one day, month, year at a time.
I still see a lot of value in doing homeschool preschool. And it is very likely I will do that for at least a year with my son. But the program I chose for Abby is pretty darn wonderful, and the teachers clearly share my learning philosophy. As they put it, they "sneak in learning" while the kids play. They might learn about the letter A, and magically the classroom is filled with all kinds of apples for the kids to play with. And they might put out a scale next to the apples, and as the kids play with it, they might ask them to think through what object is going to make the scale go up or down, and why. No pressure, just play. Because children learn best through playing.
I have actually gotten a lot of questions about changing my plans for this year. But, surprisingly enough, no one has judged me for it like I feared. Instead, every single parent has said, "It sounds like you are doing exactly what Abby needs this year."
Yes, that's what it's about. Doing what my child needs when she needs it.
May you be encouraged this year to follow your parent gut. No one knows your child like you do. And no "philosophy" is more important than your child and his or her needs. So be brave. Whether that means making an unpopular decision, changing your mind, or going against the grain, I am cheering you on.
Yes, that's right, my little girl is off to pre-k for the very first time! A lot of you remember my post last year about opting out of preschool. I made the conscious decision last year not to send Abby to a traditional preschool, but instead to homeschool her myself. We had a wonderful, flexible, fun year.
We learned all kinds of things at home last year. We worked on learning the days of the week with a simple calendar from the school supply store. We practiced motor skill development by cutting out shapes from construction paper to "decorate" the house. Abby learned to write her name by practicing writing "letters" to her friends and sending them in the mail. And the best part (at least for me anyway!) was that it didn't feel like "school."
I'll be honest, I didn't set a "schedule" and we didn't purposely work on a skill every day. But we did read a lot, and had a lot of fun playing together. And in the end, I think it was the absolute best decision I could have made.
And I would have made the same decision this year as well. In fact, I was fully planning on keeping her home with me again this year.
But then...
Life happened.
My husband got a new job. We moved almost 2 hours away. I don't know anyone here. And neither does Abby. She misses her old friends from the neighborhood, and church, and dance class. We miss our community.
So I was faced with a totally new situation this year.
I'll admit, I felt a little pressure to homeschool her again. Mostly because I felt like other parents would ask me, "Wait a minute, I thought you were all about keeping her at home? Did you change your mind?"
And, well, I suppose, yes, this year I did change my mind. There were a lot of factors to consider. Putting Abby in a traditional preschool program meant that she would have instant friends. It also meant I would meet some moms in the area. And it would provide a much needed structure to our life that has been in upheaval for the past three months.
One huge (and wonderful) surprise is that preschool here costs HALF of what it did in our old neighborhood. So I can (almost) afford it. It is still a stretch, but one that I am able to make this year, unlike last year.
And I suppose my change of heart this year is part of the beauty of parenting. You do what works for your child, in your circumstances, one day, month, year at a time.
I still see a lot of value in doing homeschool preschool. And it is very likely I will do that for at least a year with my son. But the program I chose for Abby is pretty darn wonderful, and the teachers clearly share my learning philosophy. As they put it, they "sneak in learning" while the kids play. They might learn about the letter A, and magically the classroom is filled with all kinds of apples for the kids to play with. And they might put out a scale next to the apples, and as the kids play with it, they might ask them to think through what object is going to make the scale go up or down, and why. No pressure, just play. Because children learn best through playing.
I have actually gotten a lot of questions about changing my plans for this year. But, surprisingly enough, no one has judged me for it like I feared. Instead, every single parent has said, "It sounds like you are doing exactly what Abby needs this year."
Yes, that's what it's about. Doing what my child needs when she needs it.
May you be encouraged this year to follow your parent gut. No one knows your child like you do. And no "philosophy" is more important than your child and his or her needs. So be brave. Whether that means making an unpopular decision, changing your mind, or going against the grain, I am cheering you on.
Friday, August 14, 2015
Moving is Hard
If you hadn't noticed, there has been some radio silence on this blog for a couple of months.
A lot has happened since I last posted.
My husband got a new job.
We got a puppy.
The new job started mid-June, so Ben had to leave and start that while I was home managing two kids and a puppy for two months.
We sold our house.
We moved two hours away from New Jersey to Pennsylvania.
That's the short version.
The long version is filled with a lot of ups and downs and goodbyes and emotions.
I told my friends usually it's during those kinds of times that I'm blogging and reflecting, but that this time I just couldn't figure out what to write.
They told me I was too busy just trying to handle my daily life, and that the words would come later.
They're starting to come.
Moving is hard. Really hard. I miss my house, my friends, my family, my memories. I miss knowing where all the best playgrounds are. Where the groceries are located in the grocery store. I miss knowing how to get anywhere without Google maps. I miss knowing which friend's house to drop by when I'm having a rough day.
I miss being comfortable.
I know God is in this thing. I know He has a plan. But there is nothing comfortable about this.
I am thankful for a lot of things. We have a beautiful new house. Lots of kids in the neighborhood. Ben loves the new job.
But this whole moving thing is really hard for me. And right now I am daily battling the struggle of feeling guilty for feeling so sad when I know there is much to be thankful for. I'm trying my best. If you follow me on Instagram or Facebook you'd probably have no idea how much I am struggling with this. That's the funny thing about social media. You can paint any picture you want.
I'm an introvert. Naturally I am very shy. It takes me a long time to let people in. If you're reading this and that surprises you, it's because I've become really good at faking it over the years. I can put on a smile and talk all the small talk in the world, and you'd have no idea how uncomfortable I am and how hard I am trying to make a good impression.
I hate being in situations where I don't know anyone. I hate having to make conversation with a bunch of new people. I get drained having to put on a super friendly face and act like everything is just wonderful.
Basically, living in a new neighborhood, that's what I have to do every day right now.
I'm the kind of person who prefers to have a few close friends, not a whole bunch of acquaintances. But real friends take time to make. And energy. And putting myself out there to meet them in the first place.
I know I have to give it time. And I will. But the in-between is rough. And lonely. And scary.
I cling to the promise of Romans 8:28, "And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose."
For now, it is just one day at a time. Counting my blessings and believing that God is working this out, not just for the good of my family, but for me too.
I have so many more blog post topics on my mind, but I had to say all of this first. And just be real about where I am right now so that the rest of the words can come.
A lot has happened since I last posted.
My husband got a new job.
We got a puppy.
The new job started mid-June, so Ben had to leave and start that while I was home managing two kids and a puppy for two months.
We sold our house.
We moved two hours away from New Jersey to Pennsylvania.
That's the short version.
The long version is filled with a lot of ups and downs and goodbyes and emotions.
I told my friends usually it's during those kinds of times that I'm blogging and reflecting, but that this time I just couldn't figure out what to write.
They told me I was too busy just trying to handle my daily life, and that the words would come later.
They're starting to come.
Moving is hard. Really hard. I miss my house, my friends, my family, my memories. I miss knowing where all the best playgrounds are. Where the groceries are located in the grocery store. I miss knowing how to get anywhere without Google maps. I miss knowing which friend's house to drop by when I'm having a rough day.
I miss being comfortable.
I know God is in this thing. I know He has a plan. But there is nothing comfortable about this.
I am thankful for a lot of things. We have a beautiful new house. Lots of kids in the neighborhood. Ben loves the new job.
But this whole moving thing is really hard for me. And right now I am daily battling the struggle of feeling guilty for feeling so sad when I know there is much to be thankful for. I'm trying my best. If you follow me on Instagram or Facebook you'd probably have no idea how much I am struggling with this. That's the funny thing about social media. You can paint any picture you want.
I'm an introvert. Naturally I am very shy. It takes me a long time to let people in. If you're reading this and that surprises you, it's because I've become really good at faking it over the years. I can put on a smile and talk all the small talk in the world, and you'd have no idea how uncomfortable I am and how hard I am trying to make a good impression.
I hate being in situations where I don't know anyone. I hate having to make conversation with a bunch of new people. I get drained having to put on a super friendly face and act like everything is just wonderful.
Basically, living in a new neighborhood, that's what I have to do every day right now.
I'm the kind of person who prefers to have a few close friends, not a whole bunch of acquaintances. But real friends take time to make. And energy. And putting myself out there to meet them in the first place.
I know I have to give it time. And I will. But the in-between is rough. And lonely. And scary.
I cling to the promise of Romans 8:28, "And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose."
For now, it is just one day at a time. Counting my blessings and believing that God is working this out, not just for the good of my family, but for me too.
I have so many more blog post topics on my mind, but I had to say all of this first. And just be real about where I am right now so that the rest of the words can come.
Tuesday, May 19, 2015
Broad Street Through the Eyes of a First Timer
**Note, I wrote this 2 weeks ago, but as life would have it, I haven't had a chance to finish it up until today**
This time last week I was experiencing the thrill of a lifetime: running the Broad Street 10 Miler for the very first time.
There is a lot of hype about Broad Street. It's THE largest 10 mile race in the country.
I marked the day in numbers as I went along.
40,000 people
10 miles
1 road
If you read my previous post you know what this race meant to me.
So, I wanted to give you a glimpse into what it was like to run 10 miles for the very first time in my life.
The alarm clock rang at 5:15am. I'd been awake since 4:30. Butterflies having a dance party in my stomach. Restless legs just waiting, waiting for the moment when they could be unleashed to do what I'd been training them to do.
I got up, quickly showered, went downstairs, could not eat a thing. Way too nervous.
I drove to my friend Stephanie's house in Gibbstown. She works for Shriners Hospital for Children. It happens to be located right on Broad Street, and she was leading a cheer section outside the hospital this year. She has run the race before and had offered to drop me off at the start line so I could avoid the subway. She was my saving grace that morning. She kept reminding me that I could do this. That I would do this!
She dropped me off a block from the start. Her sage advice: get in line for the porta-pots immediately. And when you're done, go back around and get back in line and go again.
Genius. I got in line three times. I'm 30 and a mother of 2. 'Nuff said.
Already by 7am there were thousands of people milling around. I walked past the start line to find my corral. I went a block... still not there... went another block... still not there... then another block....only then could I see the pink flag of my corral off in the distance.
Back of the pack baby.
I jumped into line with the rest of the pink corral. I looked around, marveling that I was surrounded by 40,000 other people and didn't know a soul around me. Stephanie had encouraged me that I would make friends in my corral. I had laughed at her. In case you didn't know this about me, I am an introvert. Small talk ain't my thing.
But I noticed two girls standing awkwardly near me. They were wondering if they were in the right place. I saw the pink color on their race bibs and assured them that they had found the right spot. It was getting close to 7:30 and they still hadn't gotten in that crazy porta-pot line. We needed to be in our spots by 7:40. I told them they better get moving. The lines were at least 30 minutes long at that point. I asked them if they'd brought toilet paper. A look of realization dawned on them.
40,000 people + 300 porta pots= not enough toilet paper
I had read about ten or so Broad Street blogs and articles ahead of time. They all said you make friends when you bring your own toilet paper. I still had some left in my clear race bag and offered it up to them. One of the girls said, "Thank you! You are my savior today!"
2 friends made.
As the time drew closer for everyone to get in their corrals the space around me started to shrink. As I looked around I saw people of all ages, shapes, sizes, and ability. My heart beat faster. As far as I could see ahead of me and behind me were people. News helicopters hovered overhead, getting ready to cover the race.
A group of girls my age stood next to me. One of the girls had a shirt that read Running slow isn't a character flaw. Quitting is.
I was totally in the right corral. These are my kind of people.
We waited in our corral. The race was supposed to start at 8am. I shifted my weight back and forth from foot to foot, getting antsy. It was breezy and I was glad I had brought a fleece to wear. Stephanie had told me that people wear old shirts to keep warm and then throw them on the ground as the race began. Race volunteers would collect the clothes and give them to a shelter after the race.
8am came and went. I was so far in the back I have no idea if the race started then or not. All I know is I didn't move an inch.
8:30... 8:45... still not moving.
Finally just before 9 we began to inch forward. A large roar from our corral filled the air as we knew our moment was coming.
I was close to the front of the line. I stood just under the start line, looking ahead at the runners who had already begun. The moment I had been waiting for was just seconds ahead.
7 months to the day of my knee surgery.
3 months of training
Years of dreaming about doing this
The gun went off and we started running. Suddenly, all the nervousness I had been feeling standing in my corral evaporated.
One foot in front of the other. The sun was shining, people were cheering, music grooving in my ear.
Stephanie had told me she would be between miles two and three. Typically in my training that is my hardest mile. My legs usually feel heavy and I wish I were sitting on my couch stuffing Doritos in my mouth. I don't hit my groove until after 4 miles.
Not today.
As I ran that first mile, gratitude like I have never felt washed over me. My whole body tingled with excitement and that phrase "my cup runneth over" couldn't be more accurate.
That morning a friend had given me the advice to take some time during the race to look around and just take it all in.
I looked ahead of me. A sea of runners stretched out as far as my eyes could see. Heads bobbing up and down. William Penn off in the distance. I looked to my left, people lined the streets clapping and cheering.
Tears came to my eyes.
I'm running Broad Street.
I'm really doing this.
I'm here. I made it.
Suddenly I passed the 2 mile marker.
What? Two miles already?
Ok, only a few more until I see Stephanie.
I moved over to the left side of the road where I knew she would be standing.
I saw her before she saw me. I raised my hands over my head, waving. A broad smile came across her face as she gave me a huge hug as I passed her.
There's something about seeing someone you know cheering for you with all their might.
I kept running. Suddenly I passed mile 3.
3 miles already?! Usually I hate mile 3! It felt like nothing!
I felt my phone buzz. My texts hadn't been working that morning because of the overload of people in one place. But I'm so glad I got this one.
Ok. Starting mile 4.
William Penn is getting closer. He's at mile 6.
I'm coming for you William.
Mile 5. It's getting hot now. The sun is beating down. I stop at my first water station. A volunteer hands me a cup. Instead of drinking it I dump it on my head. She laughs and asks if I want the whole jug dumped on me. I smile and tell her yes. I lean back and she pours half a gallon on my head.
I get back out there. I'm getting closer to City Hall. I'm feeling it a little bit in my legs, but the excitement keeps me going.
But I keep cruisin'
Can't stop won't stop movin'
It's like I got this music
In my mind , saying it's gonna be alright.
Suddenly I'm at City Hall. The crowds are picking up. The streets are lined with fans. I feel like a professional athlete. There are funny signs everywhere.
An old lady stands in the middle with a sign that says, "Gram's here!"
A row of girls holds up signs that say, "Run like there's a hot guy at the finish!"
Someone else's says, "Your feet hurt because you're kicking so much ass."
Oh yeah that's right. I got this!
We round City Hall and I realize that I've left William behind. I'm already headed to mile 7. Running a strong 11/11:30 minute mile. Pre-knee injury that would have been slow for me, but since the surgery, my knees feel the best when I keep it at an 11 minute mile.
In the weeks leading up to the race a lot of people had asked me, "Are you running for time or running to finish?" I'd had a lot of setbacks so I said without hesitation every time, "Running to finish." But let's face it, I'm always trying to best myself. I really wanted to finish in under 2 hours. It looked like I might actually do it!
Mile 7 arrived. It was one of the miles with a chip timer on the road laid flat like a line across the road. I knew Ben was tracking me real time, and had gotten updates at miles 3 and 5 already.
As soon as I saw the mile 7 marker in the distance I sprinted with all I had and stomped on that chip timer as hard as I could. BOOM! 7 miles. Done.
I only found out later that the mile 7 timer was acting up, and he never got that update... and was hoping my knees hadn't given out and that I was still running.
Miles seven through eight are a blur. I was starting to get fatigued. I turned my music up even louder and tried to focus on the beat and the lyrics.
Sometimes I change lyrics as I go to make them about running.
We're a thousand miles from comfort, we have traveled land and sea
But as long as I am running, there's no place I'd rather be
If you gave me a chance I would take it
It's a shot in the dark but I'll make it
This is my chance. It's a shot in the dark but there's no place I'd rather be.
I cross the mile 8 marker. Just after I cross I get a sharp pain in my left knee. The one that I did not get surgery on. The one that I have not had a problem with before.
As I keep running, the pain worsens. My knee tightens up. It's having a hard time going through the range of motion. I start to worry that it's going to give out on me. The pain is identical to what I had in my right knee before I got surgery.
Up to this point I had not walked in the race. I'd been alternating a jog with a faster sprint as I neared the mile markers. I knew at this point I would need to slow it down and really make the goal to finish in one piece.
I slowed to a walk. I counted to 60. My knee loosened up a bit. I started back at a slower pace. I was limping.
Mile 9 approached.
Half a mile to go before I get to see Ben.
It was the distraction I desperately needed.
People around me were dropping like flies. They'd come to a full halt in the middle of the road, as though they couldn't take another step.
Keep going. One foot in front of the other.
I was approaching the overpass, and knew he was in the crowd somewhere. But there were so many people, I ran along the left edge of the road scanning the crowd over and over. I stopped thinking about my knee.
Suddenly, I saw him, standing at the top of a hill. I started waving like a wild woman, a huge smile across my face.
This was the moment that had kept me going through months of training. On the runs when I was tired or sore or hot or cold, I would imagine seeing Ben on the sidelines, cheering for me.
Suddenly I was supercharged with renewed energy. I sprinted towards him and gave him a high five.
Only half a mile to go!
I was really going to finish!
The Navy Yard sign glistened in the sun ahead of me. A beacon of hope. Only a quarter mile to the finish.
As I approached the finish line, my throat closed in, my eyes welled up in tears. I threw both hands up over my head in victory.
10 miles.
1 finish line
1 impossible goal achieved
I looked down at my watch.
1 hour and 56 minutes.
I had done it. I had really done it.
I made my way through a sea of people and got into the line for my finisher medal.
As I hung it around my neck my whole being filled with gratitude. I soaked in the moment, feeling a sense of pride I have never experienced before.
Ben met me shortly after in the Navy Yard, beaming with pride. It's a pretty fantastic feeling when you make your husband so visibly proud of you. Months of cheering me on, watching the kids, and kicking me out the door when I was too tired to train. I'm a lucky girl.
We went out for lunch to celebrate, and then home for a long, long nap.
I could hardly walk down steps the next day. And even now, a week later, my knee is still giving me trouble.
But it was worth every ache and pain. I wish I could run it again today. It was that thrilling.
I don't know what my running future looks like. Don't know if another surgery is on the horizon. Don't know if I will ever get to run 10 miles again.
But this time I did it. And it was incredible.
Thank you to my friends who encouraged me during my training. And a huge thank you to the city of Philadephia, the incredible fans, especially Stephanie and Ben who made the day unforgettable.
This time last week I was experiencing the thrill of a lifetime: running the Broad Street 10 Miler for the very first time.
There is a lot of hype about Broad Street. It's THE largest 10 mile race in the country.
I marked the day in numbers as I went along.
40,000 people
10 miles
1 road
If you read my previous post you know what this race meant to me.
So, I wanted to give you a glimpse into what it was like to run 10 miles for the very first time in my life.
The alarm clock rang at 5:15am. I'd been awake since 4:30. Butterflies having a dance party in my stomach. Restless legs just waiting, waiting for the moment when they could be unleashed to do what I'd been training them to do.
I got up, quickly showered, went downstairs, could not eat a thing. Way too nervous.
I drove to my friend Stephanie's house in Gibbstown. She works for Shriners Hospital for Children. It happens to be located right on Broad Street, and she was leading a cheer section outside the hospital this year. She has run the race before and had offered to drop me off at the start line so I could avoid the subway. She was my saving grace that morning. She kept reminding me that I could do this. That I would do this!
She dropped me off a block from the start. Her sage advice: get in line for the porta-pots immediately. And when you're done, go back around and get back in line and go again.
Genius. I got in line three times. I'm 30 and a mother of 2. 'Nuff said.
Already by 7am there were thousands of people milling around. I walked past the start line to find my corral. I went a block... still not there... went another block... still not there... then another block....only then could I see the pink flag of my corral off in the distance.
Back of the pack baby.
I jumped into line with the rest of the pink corral. I looked around, marveling that I was surrounded by 40,000 other people and didn't know a soul around me. Stephanie had encouraged me that I would make friends in my corral. I had laughed at her. In case you didn't know this about me, I am an introvert. Small talk ain't my thing.
But I noticed two girls standing awkwardly near me. They were wondering if they were in the right place. I saw the pink color on their race bibs and assured them that they had found the right spot. It was getting close to 7:30 and they still hadn't gotten in that crazy porta-pot line. We needed to be in our spots by 7:40. I told them they better get moving. The lines were at least 30 minutes long at that point. I asked them if they'd brought toilet paper. A look of realization dawned on them.
40,000 people + 300 porta pots= not enough toilet paper
I had read about ten or so Broad Street blogs and articles ahead of time. They all said you make friends when you bring your own toilet paper. I still had some left in my clear race bag and offered it up to them. One of the girls said, "Thank you! You are my savior today!"
2 friends made.
As the time drew closer for everyone to get in their corrals the space around me started to shrink. As I looked around I saw people of all ages, shapes, sizes, and ability. My heart beat faster. As far as I could see ahead of me and behind me were people. News helicopters hovered overhead, getting ready to cover the race.
A group of girls my age stood next to me. One of the girls had a shirt that read Running slow isn't a character flaw. Quitting is.
I was totally in the right corral. These are my kind of people.
We waited in our corral. The race was supposed to start at 8am. I shifted my weight back and forth from foot to foot, getting antsy. It was breezy and I was glad I had brought a fleece to wear. Stephanie had told me that people wear old shirts to keep warm and then throw them on the ground as the race began. Race volunteers would collect the clothes and give them to a shelter after the race.
8am came and went. I was so far in the back I have no idea if the race started then or not. All I know is I didn't move an inch.
8:30... 8:45... still not moving.
Finally just before 9 we began to inch forward. A large roar from our corral filled the air as we knew our moment was coming.
I was close to the front of the line. I stood just under the start line, looking ahead at the runners who had already begun. The moment I had been waiting for was just seconds ahead.
7 months to the day of my knee surgery.
3 months of training
Years of dreaming about doing this
The gun went off and we started running. Suddenly, all the nervousness I had been feeling standing in my corral evaporated.
One foot in front of the other. The sun was shining, people were cheering, music grooving in my ear.
Stephanie had told me she would be between miles two and three. Typically in my training that is my hardest mile. My legs usually feel heavy and I wish I were sitting on my couch stuffing Doritos in my mouth. I don't hit my groove until after 4 miles.
Not today.
As I ran that first mile, gratitude like I have never felt washed over me. My whole body tingled with excitement and that phrase "my cup runneth over" couldn't be more accurate.
That morning a friend had given me the advice to take some time during the race to look around and just take it all in.
I looked ahead of me. A sea of runners stretched out as far as my eyes could see. Heads bobbing up and down. William Penn off in the distance. I looked to my left, people lined the streets clapping and cheering.
Tears came to my eyes.
I'm running Broad Street.
I'm really doing this.
I'm here. I made it.
Suddenly I passed the 2 mile marker.
What? Two miles already?
Ok, only a few more until I see Stephanie.
I moved over to the left side of the road where I knew she would be standing.
I saw her before she saw me. I raised my hands over my head, waving. A broad smile came across her face as she gave me a huge hug as I passed her.
There's something about seeing someone you know cheering for you with all their might.
I kept running. Suddenly I passed mile 3.
3 miles already?! Usually I hate mile 3! It felt like nothing!
I felt my phone buzz. My texts hadn't been working that morning because of the overload of people in one place. But I'm so glad I got this one.
Ok. Starting mile 4.
William Penn is getting closer. He's at mile 6.
I'm coming for you William.
Mile 5. It's getting hot now. The sun is beating down. I stop at my first water station. A volunteer hands me a cup. Instead of drinking it I dump it on my head. She laughs and asks if I want the whole jug dumped on me. I smile and tell her yes. I lean back and she pours half a gallon on my head.
I get back out there. I'm getting closer to City Hall. I'm feeling it a little bit in my legs, but the excitement keeps me going.
But I keep cruisin'
Can't stop won't stop movin'
It's like I got this music
In my mind , saying it's gonna be alright.
Suddenly I'm at City Hall. The crowds are picking up. The streets are lined with fans. I feel like a professional athlete. There are funny signs everywhere.
An old lady stands in the middle with a sign that says, "Gram's here!"
A row of girls holds up signs that say, "Run like there's a hot guy at the finish!"
Someone else's says, "Your feet hurt because you're kicking so much ass."
Oh yeah that's right. I got this!
We round City Hall and I realize that I've left William behind. I'm already headed to mile 7. Running a strong 11/11:30 minute mile. Pre-knee injury that would have been slow for me, but since the surgery, my knees feel the best when I keep it at an 11 minute mile.
In the weeks leading up to the race a lot of people had asked me, "Are you running for time or running to finish?" I'd had a lot of setbacks so I said without hesitation every time, "Running to finish." But let's face it, I'm always trying to best myself. I really wanted to finish in under 2 hours. It looked like I might actually do it!
Mile 7 arrived. It was one of the miles with a chip timer on the road laid flat like a line across the road. I knew Ben was tracking me real time, and had gotten updates at miles 3 and 5 already.
As soon as I saw the mile 7 marker in the distance I sprinted with all I had and stomped on that chip timer as hard as I could. BOOM! 7 miles. Done.
I only found out later that the mile 7 timer was acting up, and he never got that update... and was hoping my knees hadn't given out and that I was still running.
Miles seven through eight are a blur. I was starting to get fatigued. I turned my music up even louder and tried to focus on the beat and the lyrics.
Sometimes I change lyrics as I go to make them about running.
We're a thousand miles from comfort, we have traveled land and sea
But as long as I am running, there's no place I'd rather be
If you gave me a chance I would take it
It's a shot in the dark but I'll make it
This is my chance. It's a shot in the dark but there's no place I'd rather be.
I cross the mile 8 marker. Just after I cross I get a sharp pain in my left knee. The one that I did not get surgery on. The one that I have not had a problem with before.
As I keep running, the pain worsens. My knee tightens up. It's having a hard time going through the range of motion. I start to worry that it's going to give out on me. The pain is identical to what I had in my right knee before I got surgery.
Up to this point I had not walked in the race. I'd been alternating a jog with a faster sprint as I neared the mile markers. I knew at this point I would need to slow it down and really make the goal to finish in one piece.
I slowed to a walk. I counted to 60. My knee loosened up a bit. I started back at a slower pace. I was limping.
Mile 9 approached.
Half a mile to go before I get to see Ben.
It was the distraction I desperately needed.
People around me were dropping like flies. They'd come to a full halt in the middle of the road, as though they couldn't take another step.
Keep going. One foot in front of the other.
I was approaching the overpass, and knew he was in the crowd somewhere. But there were so many people, I ran along the left edge of the road scanning the crowd over and over. I stopped thinking about my knee.
Suddenly, I saw him, standing at the top of a hill. I started waving like a wild woman, a huge smile across my face.
This was the moment that had kept me going through months of training. On the runs when I was tired or sore or hot or cold, I would imagine seeing Ben on the sidelines, cheering for me.
Suddenly I was supercharged with renewed energy. I sprinted towards him and gave him a high five.
Only half a mile to go!
I was really going to finish!
The Navy Yard sign glistened in the sun ahead of me. A beacon of hope. Only a quarter mile to the finish.
As I approached the finish line, my throat closed in, my eyes welled up in tears. I threw both hands up over my head in victory.
10 miles.
1 finish line
1 impossible goal achieved
I looked down at my watch.
1 hour and 56 minutes.
I had done it. I had really done it.
I made my way through a sea of people and got into the line for my finisher medal.
As I hung it around my neck my whole being filled with gratitude. I soaked in the moment, feeling a sense of pride I have never experienced before.
Ben met me shortly after in the Navy Yard, beaming with pride. It's a pretty fantastic feeling when you make your husband so visibly proud of you. Months of cheering me on, watching the kids, and kicking me out the door when I was too tired to train. I'm a lucky girl.
We went out for lunch to celebrate, and then home for a long, long nap.
I could hardly walk down steps the next day. And even now, a week later, my knee is still giving me trouble.
But it was worth every ache and pain. I wish I could run it again today. It was that thrilling.
I don't know what my running future looks like. Don't know if another surgery is on the horizon. Don't know if I will ever get to run 10 miles again.
But this time I did it. And it was incredible.
Thank you to my friends who encouraged me during my training. And a huge thank you to the city of Philadephia, the incredible fans, especially Stephanie and Ben who made the day unforgettable.
Saturday, May 2, 2015
Broad Street Run... what's the big deal?
If you follow me on Facebook you know I've been blowing up my own newsfeed with updates on my training for the Broad Street Run. My running friends have been posting tips, articles, and encouragement. If you're not a runner, you might be thinking, "what's the big deal?"
Let me explain.
This race is a defining moment for me.
Scratch that.
This whole experience: the training, the failures, the successes, all of it has been a defining moment for me.
If you're not familiar with the Broad Street Run, it is the country's largest 10 mile race. 40,000 runners will follow a course straight through the heart of Philadelphia on Sunday, May 3rd.
I'm one of the 40,000. In fact, my race bib is #39450. I don't know if I was one of the last 50 to get into the race or if I'm one of the 50 slowest. Either one is a strong possibility.
This is my first 10 mile race. In fact, it is the first race I have ever entered that is longer than 3.2 miles.
A lot of people have been asking me when I tell them I am running it, "Have you always been a runner?"
Every single time I hear that question I laugh out loud. Sometimes I wonder if what they really mean by "have you always been a runner" is actually "so is this easy for you... you know, like second nature?"
The answer is a resounding HELL NO.
I have never before been a runner. In fact, in high school I played field hockey, and the thing I hated most about the sport was running. I only ran because I had to get in good enough shape to play. Running was a necessary evil.
So what changed? A lot of things, really. I had my first child in 2010, and I was unhappy with the extra baby weight. I heard about a 5k coming up in the spring that a group from church was running, and I thought hey, I think maybe I could do that. I trained for 3 months, I lost most of the weight, and I completed the race.
Running became an opportunity to get outside without my kids, listen to music with lyrics I'm not allowed to play in the car (Meghan and Katy I'm talking to you), and an opportunity to push myself. I started to think maybe there was something to this whole running thing.
A few months after my first 5k my dad, sister, and brother were diagnosed with muscular dystrophy. It is a genetic disease that is progressive. It takes over your whole body, weakens muscles, and causes extreme fatigue. My dad had been showing symptoms for a while, but for years no one was able to diagnose it.
My dad used to be a marine. He could run 15 miles with a 40 pound pack on his back. He used to fly planes, play tennis, was an avid skier. This disease has changed all that. It's taken away a lot of what he loved to do. I've watched the progression of it and I've felt helpless to do anything about it. I can't cure it, can't change it, can't make it go away.
But I can run.
What's the connection?
For me, when I am out there running I'm feeling my heart beat fast, my lungs burn, my legs ache. And I feel alive. I think about how I am the only one of my siblings who was spared the disease, and I think I run because I can. I run because it's hard. I run because with every single step I feel like I'm fighting for my family. I'm doing something hard because they do something hard every single day.
After my son was born in 2013 I set a huge goal for myself. To run a half marathon. 13.1 miles. About 6 weeks before the race I injured some cartilage in my knee and ended up having knee surgery. That was October 3, 2014. I was crushed that I had spent so many months training only to fail at my goal. The day I went in for surgery the doctor asked me if I was ready. I remember looking him in the eye and saying, "I'm ready. I'm running Broad Street in May."
After the surgery the doctor said he'd found arthritis already starting in that knee. He said in the big picture, running long distances probably wouldn't be the best idea for me.
I spent almost 3 months in physical therapy to get my knee strong again. I wrapped my mind around the fact that I would need to adjust my goals and accept my physical limitations.
But Broad Street was still calling my name. It was the impossible goal.
I started back into some short runs. My knee was feeling pretty good. Sometimes it would hurt because I was so paranoid about whether or not it was going to hurt. I was afraid to push it too hard.
Then in January, I saw that they had announced the day of the Broad Street lottery. It would be held in early February. It was now or never. I had to decide then and there if I was going to do this thing.
I signed up. I held my breath. The day I got the email that I had been accepted into the race I was both excited and terrified.
What if I failed? What if my body failed me again?
And see that's where things started to change. I realized that my fear of failure was not stronger than my determination. I also realized that whether or not I actually finished the race wasn't the biggest point. The point was to put myself back out there, push my limits, take a risk.
I started telling everyone who has ears that I was running Broad Street. Some of you might think I'm bragging. That could not be further from my motivation. In fact, I told everyone I knew so that whenever I thought about quitting I'd remember the sheer number of people I would have to face and admit that I had quit. It was my insurance policy to keep going.
I trained for 3 months. In that time I had to take off a week while my husband was away and my kids refused to stay in babysitting at the gym. Then I had to take off another 2 weeks for bronchitis.
My training hasn't been what I'd hoped.
But isn't that life?
We plan ahead. We set goals. We hope for the best. And sometimes life doesn't cooperate.
But I am wiser this time around. I'm listening to my body more. I'm reminding myself that just the fact that I didn't give up in the middle of this training is a win.
That's the great thing about running. I've always been a competitive person. I'm in it to win it. But with running, even though it is a race, I'm not racing anyone but myself. I'll never be an elite runner. I am the back of the pack, last corral, 11 minute mile and proud of it girl. And with every single mile I clock, I've won.
For that mile, I have silenced the demons of doubt, discouragement, fear, and negativity. For that mile I have proven to myself that I am stronger than I thought I was. For that mile I am truly alive.
Tomorrow is race day. It is exactly seven months to the day from when I had my knee surgery. It is going to be the culmination of a long journey filled with disappointment and some failures. But mostly, it is going to be the moment when all of my hard work and refusal to give up is rewarded by the satisfaction of knowing I have just done something I literally thought was impossible. The big shiny medal around my neck is just a plus.
I looked up the definition of bragging. It says that it is saying something in a boastful manner. One synonym is "swagger."
You know what? I do have a little bit of a swagger. And it is not the "I'm better than you swagger." No, it's the I just did what I thought I could never do swagger. And I am owning it.
That is the other great thing about runners. I never used to call myself that, but let's face it, I am one now. The running community is full of people who are doing something they never thought they could do. And they love to celebrate each other. I have friends who could LITERALLY run Broad Street twice before I even finish it once. And you know what they're saying to me? Jenny, I am so proud of you! You are amazing! I have a friend that ran it in the past, and whose time I could never come close to. And you know what she said to me today? Jenny, I am so proud to know you.
It doesn't matter how fast you go, how far you go, what races you actually complete. We're all in it together. We're cheering for each other.
I saw a snarky Facebook post about "runners just shut up" today. It was funny, it made me laugh. It probably does get annoying when people post all day about their runs. But clearly the author doesn't get it. I know that's cliche, but really he just doesn't get it. We're not posting because we think we're better than you. We're posting because we just feel so alive. We are doing what we didn't think we could. We're not judging you. We're not saying you should do it. We're just so grateful for the experience.
Tomorrow is a big day for me. I am incredibly nervous. I literally tear up every single time I think about it. It might be corny. I don't care. This IS a big damn deal.
I'm running for my dad. I'm running for me. I'm running because I can. And I am really, really, proud of what I have done.
Let me explain.
This race is a defining moment for me.
Scratch that.
This whole experience: the training, the failures, the successes, all of it has been a defining moment for me.
If you're not familiar with the Broad Street Run, it is the country's largest 10 mile race. 40,000 runners will follow a course straight through the heart of Philadelphia on Sunday, May 3rd.
I'm one of the 40,000. In fact, my race bib is #39450. I don't know if I was one of the last 50 to get into the race or if I'm one of the 50 slowest. Either one is a strong possibility.
This is my first 10 mile race. In fact, it is the first race I have ever entered that is longer than 3.2 miles.
A lot of people have been asking me when I tell them I am running it, "Have you always been a runner?"
Every single time I hear that question I laugh out loud. Sometimes I wonder if what they really mean by "have you always been a runner" is actually "so is this easy for you... you know, like second nature?"
The answer is a resounding HELL NO.
I have never before been a runner. In fact, in high school I played field hockey, and the thing I hated most about the sport was running. I only ran because I had to get in good enough shape to play. Running was a necessary evil.
So what changed? A lot of things, really. I had my first child in 2010, and I was unhappy with the extra baby weight. I heard about a 5k coming up in the spring that a group from church was running, and I thought hey, I think maybe I could do that. I trained for 3 months, I lost most of the weight, and I completed the race.
Running became an opportunity to get outside without my kids, listen to music with lyrics I'm not allowed to play in the car (Meghan and Katy I'm talking to you), and an opportunity to push myself. I started to think maybe there was something to this whole running thing.
A few months after my first 5k my dad, sister, and brother were diagnosed with muscular dystrophy. It is a genetic disease that is progressive. It takes over your whole body, weakens muscles, and causes extreme fatigue. My dad had been showing symptoms for a while, but for years no one was able to diagnose it.
My dad used to be a marine. He could run 15 miles with a 40 pound pack on his back. He used to fly planes, play tennis, was an avid skier. This disease has changed all that. It's taken away a lot of what he loved to do. I've watched the progression of it and I've felt helpless to do anything about it. I can't cure it, can't change it, can't make it go away.
But I can run.
What's the connection?
For me, when I am out there running I'm feeling my heart beat fast, my lungs burn, my legs ache. And I feel alive. I think about how I am the only one of my siblings who was spared the disease, and I think I run because I can. I run because it's hard. I run because with every single step I feel like I'm fighting for my family. I'm doing something hard because they do something hard every single day.
After my son was born in 2013 I set a huge goal for myself. To run a half marathon. 13.1 miles. About 6 weeks before the race I injured some cartilage in my knee and ended up having knee surgery. That was October 3, 2014. I was crushed that I had spent so many months training only to fail at my goal. The day I went in for surgery the doctor asked me if I was ready. I remember looking him in the eye and saying, "I'm ready. I'm running Broad Street in May."
After the surgery the doctor said he'd found arthritis already starting in that knee. He said in the big picture, running long distances probably wouldn't be the best idea for me.
I spent almost 3 months in physical therapy to get my knee strong again. I wrapped my mind around the fact that I would need to adjust my goals and accept my physical limitations.
But Broad Street was still calling my name. It was the impossible goal.
I started back into some short runs. My knee was feeling pretty good. Sometimes it would hurt because I was so paranoid about whether or not it was going to hurt. I was afraid to push it too hard.
Then in January, I saw that they had announced the day of the Broad Street lottery. It would be held in early February. It was now or never. I had to decide then and there if I was going to do this thing.
I signed up. I held my breath. The day I got the email that I had been accepted into the race I was both excited and terrified.
What if I failed? What if my body failed me again?
And see that's where things started to change. I realized that my fear of failure was not stronger than my determination. I also realized that whether or not I actually finished the race wasn't the biggest point. The point was to put myself back out there, push my limits, take a risk.
I started telling everyone who has ears that I was running Broad Street. Some of you might think I'm bragging. That could not be further from my motivation. In fact, I told everyone I knew so that whenever I thought about quitting I'd remember the sheer number of people I would have to face and admit that I had quit. It was my insurance policy to keep going.
I trained for 3 months. In that time I had to take off a week while my husband was away and my kids refused to stay in babysitting at the gym. Then I had to take off another 2 weeks for bronchitis.
My training hasn't been what I'd hoped.
But isn't that life?
We plan ahead. We set goals. We hope for the best. And sometimes life doesn't cooperate.
But I am wiser this time around. I'm listening to my body more. I'm reminding myself that just the fact that I didn't give up in the middle of this training is a win.
That's the great thing about running. I've always been a competitive person. I'm in it to win it. But with running, even though it is a race, I'm not racing anyone but myself. I'll never be an elite runner. I am the back of the pack, last corral, 11 minute mile and proud of it girl. And with every single mile I clock, I've won.
For that mile, I have silenced the demons of doubt, discouragement, fear, and negativity. For that mile I have proven to myself that I am stronger than I thought I was. For that mile I am truly alive.
Tomorrow is race day. It is exactly seven months to the day from when I had my knee surgery. It is going to be the culmination of a long journey filled with disappointment and some failures. But mostly, it is going to be the moment when all of my hard work and refusal to give up is rewarded by the satisfaction of knowing I have just done something I literally thought was impossible. The big shiny medal around my neck is just a plus.
I looked up the definition of bragging. It says that it is saying something in a boastful manner. One synonym is "swagger."
You know what? I do have a little bit of a swagger. And it is not the "I'm better than you swagger." No, it's the I just did what I thought I could never do swagger. And I am owning it.
That is the other great thing about runners. I never used to call myself that, but let's face it, I am one now. The running community is full of people who are doing something they never thought they could do. And they love to celebrate each other. I have friends who could LITERALLY run Broad Street twice before I even finish it once. And you know what they're saying to me? Jenny, I am so proud of you! You are amazing! I have a friend that ran it in the past, and whose time I could never come close to. And you know what she said to me today? Jenny, I am so proud to know you.
It doesn't matter how fast you go, how far you go, what races you actually complete. We're all in it together. We're cheering for each other.
I saw a snarky Facebook post about "runners just shut up" today. It was funny, it made me laugh. It probably does get annoying when people post all day about their runs. But clearly the author doesn't get it. I know that's cliche, but really he just doesn't get it. We're not posting because we think we're better than you. We're posting because we just feel so alive. We are doing what we didn't think we could. We're not judging you. We're not saying you should do it. We're just so grateful for the experience.
Tomorrow is a big day for me. I am incredibly nervous. I literally tear up every single time I think about it. It might be corny. I don't care. This IS a big damn deal.
I'm running for my dad. I'm running for me. I'm running because I can. And I am really, really, proud of what I have done.
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