To the Woman Who Offered Me Her Womb

Everything remembers something. The rock, its fiery bed,
cooling and fissuring into cracked pieces, the rub
of watery fingers along its edge.

The cloud remembers being elephant, camel, giraffe,
remembers being a veil over the face of the sun,
gathering itself together for the fall.

The turtle remembers the sea, sliding over and under
its belly, remembers legs like wings, escaping down
the sand under the beaks of savage birds.

The tree remembers the story of each ring, the years
of drought, the floods, the way things came
walking slowly towards it long ago.

And the skin remembers its scars, and the bone aches
where it was broken. The feet remember the dance,
and the arms remember lifting up the child.

The heart remembers everything it loved and gave away,
everything it lost and found again, and everyone
it loved, the heart cannot forget.

“What the Heart Cannot Forget” by Joyce Sutphen

I remember you: meek, friendly, heart dripping stars. We were friends, but not close friends. We were the kind that said “hey” in the halls and wrote “you’re a sweetheart” and “call me this summer” in that year’s yearbook, but never called.

I hadn’t heard from you in over 20 years when we became friends on social media. And we were “friends” in the way it often dictates: the one where you don’t necessarily talk or share, but have access to another’s life, just in case you really want it.

I’d thought of you off and on, especially when I’d see photos or updates roll past my feed, and then one day you reached out.

I remembered thinking it was likely a message sprinkled with nostalgia and perhaps a bit of regret–the kind that comes from losing touch–but what I found was this:

I am not sure where you are in life but I just wanted to reach out to you with an offer. I have thought a lot about this in the past 2 1/2 years since my family has been complete. I am looking into the process of being a surrogate/ gestational carrier for someone. I have done research on several agencies but I am somewhat reluctant to go through an agency because often times they charge the hopeful family a large amount of money for the service. I am not interested in profiting at all from this, I only want to help out. God has blessed me with smooth, uncomplicated pregnancies and I have never suffered a loss. I carried twins until 36 weeks, 4 days and they had no NICU time. I would be willing to carry multiples again. I have followed your blog and I cannot seem to get you or your struggle and pain out of my head. Having a family was a number one priority for me and I cannot imagine what you have gone through. I am very sorry if this offer is coming at a bad time and I completely understand if you are not interested but I just thought I would offer since I will most likely continue to search for a hopeful family in need of help if you are not interested. I feel like we have one chance in this life to make a difference and help others and this is one way I could help someone.
God Bless.

There was nothing to do but cry.

There have been moments when, in blistering heat, I haven’t been offered a sip of water. There have been moments when, in complete and utter despair, an embrace has been withheld. There have been moments when those I love have asked that I never consider them a bodily ally against infertility and pregnancy loss. That I never consider them surrogates of body or spirit.

And then there’s you, offering nearly a complete stranger your womb. And what is it you ask in return??


My heart still hangs on the moon of that evening, grateful that people like you exist…grateful to know people like you exist. And tiny words like Thank you? They’re insufficient.

I know that.

So what do you say to a woman who offered to place your heart in hers?

What can you say?

What can I say?

I can tell you that I will be honoring you, and all those with like hearts, this Mother’s Day and everyday.

It’s women like you–whether through surrogacy or adoption–who give the gift of motherhood to those who would otherwise remain childless.

It’s women like you who give us hope.

It’s women like you who remind us that a child doesn’t have to pass through us to be born of us.

It’s women like you who embody Grace and prove that we are each other’s keepers.

It’s women like you who allow us a chance to cloak ourselves in midnight and miracles and step onto the magically tragic, heartrendingly surreal, life-altering ride that is parenthood.

It’s women like you.

Why I Don’t Get Flowers on Mother’s Day

“Undo it, take it back, make every day the previous one until I am returned to the day before the one that made you gone. Or set me on an airplane traveling west, crossing the date line again and again, losing this day, then that, until the day of loss still lies ahead, and you are here instead of sorrow.”

― Nessa Rapoport

Moon blossoms

Last Sunday was one of those days. One of those days when your soul flattens and your heart folds into the smallness of itself. One of those days when vanilla wafers are chased by Jolly Ranchers and Dubble Bubble. One of those days when no matter how much you try, you just can’t find your joy.

Last Sunday was Mother’s Day.


My children, unlike those of my friends and family, reside in Heaven. I never held them, diapered them or saw their faces. I simply imagined them.

Babies born in the womb

I still do.


But I’m not bitter. Just sad.
And longing.
For full arms and an even fuller heart.
For my chance.
To hear a child’s heartbeat and footfall in more than just my dreams.

And so this is what wraps my heart in hurt every Mother’s Day. When I see and hear mothers being celebrated and realize I am not among them.

I thought of this last Sunday as I sat among a small group of women. In celebration. Of them.

The conversation turned insensitive. To stillbirth and future pregnancies. For others.

And my heart screamed out:
Consider your audience!

As I squeezed back tears.


Whether by accident or design, being left out hurts.

It hurts when your place is on the sidelines.
It hurts when it’s easier to cry than to smile.
And it hurts when what’s been gained trumps what’s been lost.

It hurts.  In the most sacred of places. It hurts.

But then there are angels who remind you of your worth.

Friends in the shadows

They remember your scars.
And call you Beloved.
They bless you and your tiny citizens of Heaven with their love.
And their promise not to forget…

Never to forget…

That. You.


A. Mother.

a mother



**Post-write and pre-publish, I watched Lifetime’s global release of RETURN TO ZERO**

Image courtesy of

Image courtesy of

This is part of their mission statement found at

“While this film is intended for a wide-release to audiences regardless of their life experience, RETURN TO ZERO fills a particular niche for a market that has gone unserved — those who have or know someone who has experienced the devastating loss of stillbirth, miscarriage, or neonatal death.”

If you or someone you love has experienced such a loss, I highly recommend watching this film.

RETURN TO ZERO is raw, real and beautifully done.  An absolute gem of a film and a ray of hope.

For us all.