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The Piece of Me I Let Go

November 21, 2022

Picture of me in Rwanda on a safari, 2022

I stopped blogging because I couldn’t write about it all anymore.

There was too much.

I was too overwhelmed.

Bella was too old.

Everything felt too broken.

My blog started as something about me, as a mama floundering through sleepless nights, rough pregnancies, and then unimaginable grief.

And then it changed.

Pain came from other places and people besides me.

How do you write that? How do you document other people’s pain who are still alive and doing the best they can? Even if it rocks you to the core and the only release you’ve ever found that worked was writing.

You can’t.

At least, I couldn’t. I couldn’t figure out how to get it out of my head and onto this site without making a mess in real life.

I tried a journal, but it wasn’t the same. Call it vanity or narcissism, but it had to be where others could read, or it felt like I was writing into the abyss. Part of my healing – was you.

So I stopped most of my writing.

And eventually, I found something else – community. People I love, who have changed my life, our lives, their babies I have held, and friends I’ve shared parts of my life that no one else knows.

And I love it.

And I miss this.

I have community, and now this feels – scary. It feels too raw and real.

Because I don’t want to come on here and bullshit my way through a post. “You guys life is amazing now #soblessed.”

Lordy. o_O

But now I’m a teacher, a deacon, and the director of the Children’s Ministry. Mother to a teenager who very well could find this blog online. She knows about it, but she doesn’t know about it. School parents who could find my blog.

So past posts are easier because I can say, “Oh yes, that was years ago.”

But most of it might be years ago, but it’s also still today.

So I type, stare from the Starbucks window, erase, type, and start again. Trying to find the right words. Linkin Park (and a little Eminem) in my earbuds, wondering what would happen if one day I just poured it all out…

That a year after we lost Kaden, our lives turned upside down in such a traumatic way that it changed everything.

That the night before Kaden died, and we knew we had to let him go the next day, I went back to the hotel and cursed out God because I figured that was the only way to hurt Him as much as He’d hurt me. And I’ve always wondered if that meant I lost my salvation.

A small part of me doesn’t care – if that’s all it took.

That parenting a teen is 100x more complicated than a toddler. And most days, I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing. I feel like we have more tears now than when she was 2.

That the anxiety I always wrote about now mixes with depression, and I hate it. I’d rather have anxiety over depression any day of the week.

That I’m 39 and often think about the life choices I’ve made as 40 creeps closer.

That I travel and travel, and part of me hopes that this time, this place, will fix me, will bring me some clarity, and yet it never seems to…

That loss didn’t make me a better, gentler, more appreciative mother. Once in a while, yes. But if I’m really honest – it actually made me a shittier one. How can someone go through all that and not come out super messed up?

I certainly don’t know.

That running through the vein of my life is a silent scream wondering what I am doing, what this all means, how can I travel to places where I see the poverty and need and desperation right there in front of me and come home to Starbucks, earbuds in, on a computer pondering my own life…

How my dreams still seem like I’m ten and insisting I will never drive a car because of the environment and instead will ride a horse everywhere. And that’s all I wanted for Christmas. And my poor parents trying to convince me just to ask Santa for something doable.

I started giggling, remembering that. 😉

But I feel like I can’t elaborate on any of that more because – because I’m all the things I just listed before. And each of these things would be its own blog post.

This isn’t a fix-it/advice post. More of my pondering how to find the piece of me I let go of so long ago without also losing the pieces I found. Sometimes I wish I had followed through and written that book, but I know it wasn’t the right timing then.

Somehow I need to connect these two in a way that holds space for both sides.

Because I miss this piece.

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