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Friday, November 4, 2016

A Post for the Women

Let me be the first to say: I cannot be trusted.

For those of you who aren't my real-life people, or my internet friends who've crossed over into the Facebook-friendship realm, my husband and I are a whole trimester into expecting our very first baby.

And ever since, the pressures of life rose and converge.

Everything became heightened. Like watching a color TV for the first time. Or tasting a ripe fruit plucked from the crooked branch of a mango tree in the Dominican Republic.

Different. Real. Real in a way you can't turn back.

The past few weeks have flown. There's been a playlist of treasured, hurting friends and family members, hurricanes, financial unrest, questions and reevaluations about life-stages and career choices and diets and weight-gain and pants that are more than just a little too tight.

Not to mention 8:30 p.m. bedtimes.

I'm not sure when it happened, exactly. Was it when I realized the faint faint pink line on that test wasn't just a shadow? Was it when my sister called me crying after I sent her the news via SnapChat? (Not a recommended method for good-news sharing.)

Was it when we thought midway through the first trimester that we were losing our sweet baby, and I began to mourn someone I never met but loved with my whole heart?

Was it when we went to the doctor's office after that weekend from hell when the ultrasound technician showed us the flickering image on the screen? Was it when I texted "FOUND HEARTBEAT!" to everyone I had asked to pray, pray, pray?

Or was it when I heard that gentle rumbling that sounds unmistakably like horse hooves with my own ears? The fast, triumphant proclamation: I'm here, I'm here, I'm here!

I'm not sure when it happened. When all the unraveling overcame hope, dignity, and replaced them with self-pity.

But I think somewhere along the positive pregnancy lines, somewhere in this season the fears, doubts and worries finally crossed into a more powerful place.


Here's what I know:

My life, my first-world stress, my distractions do not reflect strong
character. Plain and simple.

This isn't me. Seeking a deeper purpose from things like work and bank accounts. To let worry absorb me. To overthink, second-guess, and let my hunt for more, more, more define me.

To the point where the old me, the girl who went on missions trips to third-world countries would be astounded by my materialism, my doubts, and what angers me. Because she was a girl who held her chin high, popped in a Katy Perry song and kept pressing forward.

Even when she was sure she was going to lose.

That's who we are. And somewhere along the way, we've lost it. I've lost it.

We are the Women.


We are the Women who welcome challenges.

We are the Women who overcome obstacles, large and small.

The ones who juggle coffee and car keys, carry all of our Target bags in one lop-sided trip from the car to our house; the plastic bags that make red impressions on the insides of our elbows.

We are the Women who are there for the grief, who find time to meal plan and fight to make time for the people we love when it's tempting to just power through and only think of ourselves.

We are the Women who show up. Who shut up when we know silence is
imperative because our words can be ravaging.

We're the ones who rise up when we're tired. Or grumpy. Or devastated. Or haven't had nearly enough caffeine.

We stay in jobs we're not crazy about because they grow us. In hopes of a promotion or a really nice job reference. We persevere when the world looks hopeless.

We are the Women who remain grateful in the face of everything, because we know the majority of the world lives on two dollars a day. And that's what we believe a fair price is for a tall cup of coffee.

Somewhere along the way I lost this. And I want this. I want it for all of us.


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