Dear reader,
No question this week. Just a confession.
When I started my weekly newsletter four years ago I prayed fervently for the first subscribers. I didn’t know what number was realistic but I asked God for a specific number of subscribers and the day I launched my newsletter the subscriber count was that exact number. I felt like it was a clear sign from God that this was exactly where I needed to be.
Over the four years of writing this newsletter I’ve worked hard to consistently send it out every week. Some weeks I’ve felt like it’s been beautifully written. Other weeks, I felt like I was just showing up to be consistent and admittedly wasn’t super proud of what I wrote. In either case, I still knew this newsletter was still where I needed to be. But over the past year or so I’ve felt a shift and I’ve been trying my best to navigate it.
When I got pregnant with Ira I was elated. I had worked really hard to get to a place in my career where I could confidently balance the two things I’ve always wanted to do—write books and raise babies. I still remember when I was a little girl I met a “real life author” at the library who was also a mom. She described her days of dropping her kids off at school and returning home to her home office to write books. That vision of the future was all I wanted. I clung to that vision and repeatedly told people of it when I was asked what I wanted.
Staring at the positive pregnancy test last year caused me to feel like my daydreams had become reality. In a lot of ways, they were. I was doing both of the things I had always thought I would do by being a writer and a mother.
The daydream version of my life that I aspired to was quickly quite different than the one I was actually living. In reality, my pregnancy was incredibly difficult. I spent every day so sick I could only get out of bed to try to puke somewhere practical. When I asked my provider about it I was told it was no big deal since I was “still gaining plenty of weight” which only made me feel worse.
My writing dreams were quickly put on hold when I was struggling to manage daily life with a difficult pregnancy. I had to put forth every ounce of effort I had just to make it through the day. I dropped as many commitments as I could. I was saddened by the loss of many opportunities but I knew it would all be worth it for my son.
When Ira’s birth was right around the corner I had settled into focusing on simply managing my health and pregnancy. I knew I would make my way back to writing after the break I planned on taking postpartum.
Although I haven’t shared my son’s full birth story publicly, most of my readers and followers know at this point that my son’s birth was incredibly traumatic. It started beautifully but ended in an unwanted emergency C section where his first breath was so strong he blew a hole in his lung. We spent his birthday seperate—him with breathing tubes and monitors in the NICU and me drugged up and getting stitched up from my surgery down the hall. It was simply awful. When I tell the full story I watch eyes fill up with tears, especially from other moms, who whisper things like I can’t even imagine.
After my son’s stay at the NICU my husband, son and I returned to our home raw and haunted. We don’t live close to family so we had a few visitors but mostly, we felt completely alone in our grief and turmoil and left to try to pick up the pieces.
I knew I wanted to get back to writing at some point but I didn’t know what it would look like. I wanted it to feel like coming home to something familiar but instead I felt like everything that used to feel comforting just felt different. It’s hard to explain unless you’ve been in a season of loss or grief yourself.
I picked up as many old rituals as I could–walks around the neighborhood, slowly brewing my coffee, listening to my favorite album while I took a long, hot shower–but was continually confronted with what felt like a fire alarm going off in my brain screaming, “everything has changed!”
My loss felt foreign and difficult to explain. My son and I miraculously survived against harsh odds but I still have so many questions for God. Things I don’t think I will ever understand in this life. I’m angry. I’m hurt. I’m lonely. And I’m scared. Some of my favorite insensitive remarks in response to my futile attempts to explain myself include, “you’re still sad about that?” “have you prayed about it?” “Birth is just hard. That’s normal” and “it’s not helpful to view yourself as a victim.”
I started therapy as soon as I could get in. I knew this wasn’t something I was fully equipped to navigate myself and I found God more clearly on the little plush loveseat with the sound machine whirring in the background than I did in worship at church. Again, it’s hard to explain unless you have been through it before. If you’re familiar with “the dark night of the soul” this is it.
The past few months I’ve spent fighting to be doing better and in a lot of ways I am. But as I sit with the reality of a rough pregnancy, traumatic birth, NICU baby, and challenging postpartum season I feel a growing need to be honest. Honest with myself, with God, and with the people in my life. My “always look on the brightside” attitude has taken a backseat in this season and often I feel like I’m cautiously tip-toeing through life hoping not to step on another landmine that will blow up in my face.
Last week, for the first time in four years, I didn’t send out my weekly newsletter. Some weeks I’ve sent a guest post or something a little different but in four years I’ve never skipped a week until last week.
I was simply at a loss for words. Maybe because I’m struggling to make sense of this season. Maybe because I want writing to feel like coming home but it doesn’t. Maybe because I am still saying “God is good” to myself but some days I’m asking myself if I truly believe it. Yes, it’s a miracle my son and I are alive. But it wasn’t the miracle I wanted. It wasn’t the story I asked for or prayed for. If I could trade our story for a different one, I would. My therapist says I need to work on “radical acceptance” of this story. I’m not there yet but one day I hope to be.
While I’m living this unwanted story, writing feels different. I can’t ignore the alarm in my head saying “everything has changed!” The “bounce back” narrative for postpartum moms is tough but for me bouncing back has been a way of life, a part of my identity even, and a piece of me that I’m learning I need to let go of. I can’t bounce back from this and I need to release myself from the pressure to.
Right now this is what I know–everything has changed. I don’t know exactly what that means yet but I know it is honest and true. I know that I am both a writer and mother. I also know that both of those things are taking on different shapes than I ever anticipated.
I’m not going to stop writing my weekly newsletter but I am taking the pressure off. Some weeks it might look different. Some weeks it might not come at all. It might not have structure. It won’t always be the same. While I’ve been experimenting with new formats I’ve realized the format isn’t the problem. In this season I need to give myself grace. Grace to be inconsistent. Grace to feel hurt–by God, by people, and even by myself.
Extending myself this grace means this weekly newsletter will look different. I know that affects you. And if it is no longer for you, that’s ok. We can part ways as friends.
But if you’re like me–willing to admit that everything has changed and something feels different but you can’t put your finger on what, if you’re desperate for answers but aren’t sure where to look, if platitudes aren’t cutting it and you’re looking for a place where God is still considered infinitely good but sometimes life has knocked you off your feet, if your dreams are shape shifting and your identity is rocked–you’re in the right place.
Because I want to be around more Christians who aren’t afraid to cry.
Who are “poured out like water” with “hearts like wax melted in anguish” (Psalm 22:14) who still say “I will tell of your name” and “I will praise you” (Psalm 22:22) but acknowledge there is a messy middle ground.
So here is my confession: today I’m somewhere in that messy middle ground saying, “Lord do not be far from me” (Psalm 22:19) when some days it feels like He is.
Thank you for sharing your heart with us! Stay strong Molly! God is giving you a story to tell and He will make it beautiful! He makes all things beautiful in His time. I will be praying for you and your family! ❤️. Always Believe - John 11:40 🙏
Thank you for sharing your authentic self and struggles. In this prisoner-of-war camp we live in, we suffer, and suffer, and suffer.
I was in a dark tunnel this year when I was surprised to read Psalms 23 again after 65 years of Bible study to realize that somewhere in the middle, there was a change in person. Why? This short chapter starts all rosy and fun…”He leads me by the still waters…”. But suddenly, there is a shift…you find yourself in the “valley of the shadow of death.” Not actual death, but it feels pretty close. It is then you can discover that you don’t need to fear a thing, because God himself is WITH you. Not available, not far away, but WITHIN YOU.
I noticed that for the rest of Psalms 23, instead of calling God “He”, you call God “You”. It is only after that in-the-trenches time with God that you really begin truly knowing God. Then watch what happens: Jesus, who has walked this hurt-filled path before you, comforts you like the true shepherd He is. He gives you a fullness of life and blessings that the unrighteous cannot comprehend. He gives you an overflowing measure of His Holy Spirit that enables you to truly become part of His River of Life, the light at the end of other’s dark tunnels. Goodness and love will follow you all the days of your life, and you will dwell permanently in the house of the Lord.
That may help to explain why the Bible tells us, “Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything. If any of you lacks wisdom, you should ask God, who gives generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given to you.” James 1:2-5.
As a fellow sufferer on our journey to the promised land, I am praying with and for you, and for the witness you will add to what you have experienced before. May God bless you in every way, Molly.