When I was seven, my second grade teacher hated me. She picked her favorites and I wasn’t one of them. She would humiliate me and my best friend in front of the classroom and bully us. I remember feeling shame (though I didn’t understand that emotion yet) that I wasn’t “good enough” to be one of her favorites, that something must be wrong with me.
When I was 10, I would tell my mom I was going to hang out with my friends during the summer. I didn’t actually have anyone to hang out with but I didn’t want her, or anyone in my family, to “worry” about me because I wasn’t “popular.” I’d spend a few hours walking around the neighborhood, sometimes knocking for a few people, and then I would sit in the schoolyard until I felt enough time had passed that I could go back home.
When I was 13, I discovered that alcohol and cigarettes had the ability to make people seem cool. I wanted that identity.
When I was 14, I put myself on a a strict diet and exercise regime. I remember writing out my plan in my notebook: run off more calories than you eat. I’d document every single thing I ate, even gum, and round up calories just so I could lose even more weight. This starvation method worked and I lost a ton of weight in a short amount of time. People began to notice me.
When I was 15, I got down to a size so small even I was shocked at the number. I became obsessed with becoming smaller and seeing the number go down on the scale. The smaller I got, the more people noticed me. I equated gaining weight with being a failure and it was my biggest fear. This disordered lifestyle led to me really messing up my body and a depression so deep I couldn’t find myself out of it for a long, long time.
When I was 16, I was voted Vice President of my high school. While the disappointment of not getting the “President” title was real, this was the validation I needed that I was popular and that my life was “perfect” from the outside.
When I was 17, I got rejected from my dream school and then my first real boyfriend would go on to cheat on me in front of my face. I told myself I was worthless and threw myself into a summer of self-sabotage.
When I was 18, I went to a college that wasn’t the right fit for me but I tried to force it because I didn’t want to be seen as a failure. I joined the lacrosse team and realized that just because I was a great high school player did not mean I was at the same level as my NCAA teammates. I struggled badly with this realization and, because of that, never allowed myself to get close to any of them. I lost out on a lot of potential friendships and I got in a lot of trouble this year. At this point, I was at my heaviest weight and spiraled into my deepest depression.
When I was 20, I finally transferred colleges and it was a much better fit; however, I felt entirely inadequate next to my journalism classmates having felt like I lost two precious years of learning alongside them. I told myself I was a terrible writer. I had an editor who told me this too.
When I was 22, after graduating college, I hopped on a plane by myself to go to Ireland and have the experience of a lifetime, just to prove to myself and everyone around me that I could. I felt lost the entire time I was there (literally and figuratively) and I came home feeling even more lost. After dealing with months of unemployment, I finally landed a job and moved in with my sister. I began to lose the extra 40 pounds I gained over the years and, because of this, I told myself I was worthy again.
When I was 23, I went on a date with a coworker. He saw something in me that I desperately wanted to see in myself. I started taking creative writing classes at NYU (I guess I did finally attend my dream school!) and was in the middle of writing my first book. I felt motivated and excited for the first time in a long time.
When I was 24, I started running long distance. Running gave me an outlet and it also made me feel like part of a community. I felt like I finally fit in somewhere.
When I was 26, I changed careers. I jumped headfirst into the nonprofit world and it finally felt like the puzzle pieces were fitting together. My life was turning into something so beautiful.
When I was 28, that old coworker of mine proposed to me in front of my entire family. I felt like my perfect life was just beginning. That bliss only lasted a few months before jumping into the house buying process and losing house after house after house. We finally found a house the month we were getting kicked out of our apartment that we couldn’t afford.
When I was 29, I became a director in the nonprofit world. I was actually proud of myself. The many hours and all of the hard work was paying off. I checked this accomplishment off my “Things to Achieve Before 30” bucket list. I also checked off running a marathon, having a bachelorette party in New Orleans, and buying a house before 30. My perfect life was forming.
The formation of my perfect life came to an abrupt halt when, for the first time since I was seven years old, I had someone else tell me I was not worthy, that I was not as good as they originally thought. It shattered my world.
When I was 30, I started healing the wounds that that person made. I got married to the most incredible human while feeling inadequate and unworthy. I did a ton of self reflection to make it out of this depression episode. Before the year was up, I learned that I was accepted to the University of Pennsylvania, and I thought back to 17-year-old me who was rejected from her dream school and told her “we did it.”
When I was 31, I made another plan. During my 10-month long full-time master’s program, while also working full-time, I would get pregnant. I waited a few months before trying so that I could make sure I could walk at graduation. This was the start of resisting the word “infertility.” My entire life I have been taught to work hard, and if something did not come easy (which nothing did) then I would just have to work harder. But that’s not how fertility works. There is no training plan for it. It simply happens quickly for some, and others it does not. It is not fair. There is no rhyme or reason. I did not want to allow that word to shatter my dreams. I did not want to be part of the infertility community.
In April 2019, two months before I turned 32 and one month before I graduated from grad school, my mom died suddenly and tragically. I was drowning in grief and guilt. I convinced myself her death was my fault. I rejected the reality of my life (no mom, no baby) and wished for it to be over. I didn’t have any fight left. I was now part of yet another community that I did not want - the grief community. I bought a book called “Motherless Daughters” but could not bring myself to read it because, to this day, I will never self identify as a motherless daughter - I will always have my mom. I couldn’t even fit in to that community.
When I was 32, my life, as I knew it, was over. With the help of therapy, I began to rebuild, very slowly. I read every book there was about how to survive grief. I underwent surgery to help with my infertility, only to be told a few months later it was unsuccessful. I became a human pincushion and had to get the most painful tests done. The month before my husband and I were set to start a medicated/IUI cycle, I got pregnant naturally and with identical twins. I finally allowed myself to breath a sigh of relief. Maybe my life wasn’t over. Maybe I could join the perfect life club. Maybe I was not doomed to live a life full of misery while everyone around me seemed to be getting pregnant and having babies. I’d grieve my mom hard, knowing she should be a Cak Cak to my twins, but I felt hopeful again. I saw a life ahead of me and did not feel dread. I clung to this blissful feeling of belonging to the happy pregnant community. I never wanted to let go.
In April 2020, one year after my mom’s sudden and tragic death, I found out I had a “missed miscarriage” and I lost both of my twins. I got kicked out of the happy pregnancy club.
Here I am, at age 33, still without my mom and without the prospect of a baby, and trying to come to terms with what has become of my life. Many days I feel so lonely. I’ve connected from a distance to the infertility, grief, and miscarriage communities, but I have never wanted to get too close because that meant I was “one of them.” They’re not the popular crowd. They are the broken ones and I am SO done with being broken (Side not: I was very wrong about this. All of these communities hold such badass warriors and I am in constant awe of their strength and resilience.)
But today, on my kitchen floor, I realized something. I realized that grief, infertility, and miscarriage as an adult carry the same title as nerd, loser, and outcast as a child. I realized the patterns of my life, of wanting to belong so badly but never feeling like I did. I realized that it wasn’t that I didn’t belong, it was that I told myself that I was not worthy, that I didn’t DESERVE to belong. There was always something I needed to do to obtain that life, whether that was lose another 10 pounds, get a better job, or in this case, have a baby.
I’m not going to lie. I still am very skeptical that anything good can and will happen to me. While miracles happen to those around me, I sit and wonder if that could ever be me. I don’t have that same hope I once had. But I have spent the past 33 years of my life trying to prove to myself that I am worthy and let me tell you, I am exhausted.
To seven-year-old me looking through the glass to her classmates wishing she was worthy of being the favorite; to 10-year-old me who wandered the neighborhood wishing to be popular; to 14, 15, and 16-year-old me who thought she needed to get so tiny for people to notice her; to 17-year-old me who was rejected from her dream school and who was cheated on; to 18-year-old me who got knocked down by many lacrosse sticks; to 20-year-old me who felt so inadequate as a writer; to 22-year-old me who wandered the streets of Ireland trying to find herself; to 23-year-old me who deleted her book so many times; to 24-year-old me who began running to run away from her feelings; to 26-year-old me who was chasing professional success over everything else; to 28-year-old me who thought she needed the perfect wedding and the perfect house; to 29-year-old me who was told she was worthless, while simultaneously training for a marathon, to 30-year-old me who felt imposter syndrome when she was accepted to Penn, to 31-year-old me whose life was shattered when she lost her mom and entered the grief community, and to 32-year-old me whose life was shattered again when she miscarried twins and entered that community, I just want to say you are okay. You are safe. You are enough. You were always enough. You will always be enough, no matter what life throws your way or how many times you find yourself on the kitchen floor.
Mom, remember when I would come home from lunch in tears when I was in second grade because my teacher was so mean to me? You were NOT having that. So many letters were written in my defense and I am forever grateful that you were always in my corner my entire life. I remember Grandpop would give me a Milky Way candy bar every day at lunch because he told me it could take any problem away (including mean teachers). I still eat a Milky Way when I am having a bad day. So much has happened and I need you in my corner again. I miss you telling me that everything was going to be okay, that it would all work out, or that God works in mysterious ways. Maybe the shock of the miscarriage is wearing off and it is finally hitting me that, at one point, I was carrying twin babies, or maybe it was that happiness was at my fingertips and then it was snatched away from me…again. Whatever it is, I could really use your wisdom and love. I know that you taught me to be a fighter but, right now, I feel like I need a break from fighting. Send me some strength, a hug, and maybe a Milky Way.
Love you infinity, Mom.
Love,
Your Sweetheart
