acceptance | Dani De Luca

Some time ago, fellow blogger and sister-in-loss, Justine Froelker, reached out and asked me to review a chapter of her upcoming book, Ever Upward: Overcoming the Lifelong Losses of Infertility to Own a Childfree Life. I’ll admit I was hesitant, since reading and somehow “grading” a person’s heart notes can be scary, especially if the relationship isn’t the stuff of marrow and soul. But I wanted to do it for her, in honor of the heart shards we share.

The chapter title which spoke to me most was Chapter 8: Emerging to Own Myself Again. The visual representation I had was of a wounded butterfly recocooning itself to heal, yet reemerging, after a Season of grief and recovery, better and stronger because of its traumas or, as Justine calls them, “soul scars”. It is precisely that image that Justine puts into words:

It was with these words, “own and not just prove”, that I felt my calling, my purpose. I needed to own every single part of my story and not just prove it. I needed to stop trying to prove that my path is okay. That not doing another round of IVF is okay. That not being a mother is okay. That not adopting is okay. Stop trying to prove it and just own it. Own my struggles in the IVF world. Own that I stopped treatments. Own that I don’t want to adopt. Own that I am more than childless. Own that I will practice and fight for my recovery and my own childfree life.

Despite the fact that our stories are similar, I don’t pretend to understand all that Justine has suffered. I am, now more than ever, keenly aware of the breadth and depth of the loss spectrum. And surely, if I have learned anything about grief and recovery, it is that each is uniquely personal. Truly, a pebble thrown in the well of the heart will never make exactly the same ripple twice. And I believe it is designed that way. As my husband says, “God is not a god of repetition”: no two trees are alike, no two flowers and yes, no two traumas are either.

Justine’s chapter reminds me of this and what waits for us on the other side:

We are only capable of understanding so much in this life, and maybe we’re only allowed to understand so much. Maybe I will always have to create this constant balance between finding my purpose through the story of my struggle, making sure it means more, at least to me, and trusting that it will still mean just as much without the soul-completing clarity I so desire.

Perhaps the anger will hang on; perhaps the question of whether or not to try again will be a daily, if not an hourly, one; perhaps our sacred light will be snuffed out, at least for awhile; but Justine reminds us that there is more after loss. There is joy, and purpose, and yes…

There. Is. Life.

If you need that reminder, or if you’d like to share that reminder with someone else, you can pre-order now or purchase the book on October 1, 2014 here .

Until I spin my next web,
Dani

You know that feeling? The one you have when you’re about to make a horrible decision? The one you’ve convinced yourself you have to make because there are no other options (even though there are)?

I had that feeling nearly four years ago.

We had decided to take on a new renter while we lived abroad in Brazil. We knew she was off. That she was prickly. That her all-too-nice exterior was covering something toxic. But, instead of bolting in the other direction, we signed on the dotted line.

The dotted line that stole our peace

AND

our sanity.

The woman who moved into our home (I specify that it was a home. We had made it that way. We had loved it that way.) was a horribly sad case.

This week she finally left.

This week we went to assess the damage.

This week we found a revolting reality.

Our home, now just a slab and walls, had become a sub-standard shelter. A place without life. Without soul. Without love.

Looking around, I felt sick and angry and completely overwhelmed.

I can’t do this.

Where do I even begin?

What’s the financial cost? The emotional??

AND

Is it even worth it?

One look to my husband confirmed that it was, so I started toward the kitchen and opened the fridge.

There was a strong waft of Y.U.C.K against my cone mask.

Worse than I thought.

I removed all the shelving, the bins, the ice maker and started sudsing. And, after four hours, I stepped back to admire my work:

It. Was. Like. New.

Like the neglect and indolence never happened.

Like she never happened. And I smiled at the thought of it.

Then stepped outside of myself and felt utterly cruel.

And realized…

all that time I’d spent hating her, I should have been praying for her. Because for her to become the person she is must have required horrible neglect and indolence on the part of those who were supposed to love her. To protect her. To shelter her.

And I felt something for her then that I’d never felt: compassion

How much easier it would be if we could just 409 our hearts and Mop & Glo our souls. If we could be made new, with some sudsy water and some serious elbow grease, like my lovely fridge?? And then I realized…

We can.

Anything that is loved can be restored. Perhaps it won’t be exactly as it was before. Perhaps we won’t be as we were before. And maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe what could make us bitter should instead make us better.

Perhaps it would be good for her to know that.

I don’t know if we’ll move back, if we’ll rent again or if we’ll sell.

And really…it doesn’t matter.

What does matter is that I know now that things are not always what they seem. And that, oftentimes, the experiences that test the most, teach the most, as well.