"What if there isn't a plan?"

Yael Wolfe posed this question in her recent piece about Why Childless Women Inspire Superstitious Sentiment. "What if there isn't a plan?" Perhaps because I don't come from a religious background, and I'm not surrounded by religious people or even in a religious society, as I mentioned back in World Childless Week, I don't think about "God's Plan" or believe that there is one. But as I wrote then, the "it wasn't meant to be" sentiment is still strong. Yael Wolfe's articles echoes a lot of the sentiments in my post, but was perhaps kinder to people who say these things than I was! It's worth reading. Or see Loribeth's excellent synopsis and selected quotes here.

I highlight it again here because the idea that there is no plan, and that everything is random, does not worry me as Wolfe concludes it worries so many others who just want certainty in their lives. When I accepted that everything was random, that nothing "happens for a reason" it was a moment of true relief and a lifting of the burden of guilt. Because I did feel guilt that I must have done something wrong to not be able to have children, an accomplishment that so many others - less deserving others as I know now - manage, or perhaps have imposed on them against their will. 

Realising that that guilt was so misplaced, and dispensing with it, gave me a freedom and lightness and yes, uncertainty, that I would always take over the assurance that everything happened to me for a reason. It is so much easier to show compassion to myself and acceptance of others, to try not to judge, and to be the best that I can be within my power and circumstances. Uncertainty and randomness has taught me gratitude, mindfulness, and appreciation for the little things (as well as the big). It has helped me stop worrying as much about future events. It has stopped me focusing on the what-ifs, because that is so pointless, and given me a clarity that has made life better, and easier. 

Embrace the uncertainty! It will set you free.

Talking about The Unthinkable

I was thinking over the weekend that it was time I wrote a more upbeat post here. Because life right now, here in New Zealand, is good, and only a few weeks ago I wrote about the importance of gratitude. So I should practice what I preach! Then this morning I heard an interview with a couple who had lost their baby shortly after birth. Their story is the first in a podcast series about being produced by Radio New Zealand (RNZ), and rightly, the podcast is getting plenty of publicity from our national radio station. And I have to say, as sad as the story was, it was good to hear it at peak time on Monday morning, sandwiched between political commentary and news reports, less than two months from our own election. The interviewer too, let them talk. It helped that the woman in the couple is a journalist for RNZ, and they were both very open and articulate.

You can hear today’s interview via this link, and the five-part podcast is aptly titled, The Unthinkable. Episode One, about the first couple’s experience, is already up.

One issue that the father talked about is one I could very much relate to. He talked about those first fleeting moments of happiness or laughter, then being wracked with guilt. “How could I laugh when I’ve lost my baby?” he remembered feeling. I lifted my head and looked to the sky and said, “oh god, yes!” I had exactly that reaction, almost verbatim, numerous times. Until I realised that it was okay. It didn’t mean I didn’t love the baby I never had, the pregnancies I had lost. It didn’t mean I didn’t deserve it. I’ve written about this a lot, most recently here and all of them labelled “guilt” are here. But even though I knew all this, it was very good to hear it being said, and very good to know that others in need were hearing this too.

Another interesting point was they talked about a subsequent miscarriage, in between the two children they have had since. They talked about how hard that was, and how that brought considerable fear the next time they got pregnant. Many can relate to that. It was the theme of my post only a couple of weeks ago. Our innocence – that we can have a pregnancy (healthy, or at all) – is gone.

Yes, it can be hard listening. It is far from upbeat. But there is really good advice about relationships, about how people can help (we can all relate to that I am sure), and about the hope. Because there is hope there too. Hope for recovery. Hope to understand that they will feel happy again. Hope to know that a good life is possible; in fact, inevitable. And that's the best news any of us can have.

No Kidding 2020 Project: Day 7 - Honour

I can well remember the guilt I felt when I began recovering in those early days after loss and after knowing my journey to have children was over. I was, at times, overwhelmed with it – the guilt seemed to be determined to stop any healing, any happiness. The guilt asked nasty questions, misled me, and told me lies. Maybe I didn’t want children enough if I could begin to feel joy. Maybe, if I could begin to feel joy now, it meant that I didn’t deserve to have children. Were my fleeting moments of pleasure, or laughter, a betrayal of the babies I had lost, or those I would never have? Were they a betrayal of my journey, and the pain I’ve been through? Etc etc.

I am sure many of you know the drill, as I’ve heard this from so many women (and a few men), over almost 20 years of involvement in loss and infertility fields. We’re so good at beating ourselves up, and that insidious guilt seems to come naturally. And we’re often so used to the pain, that we don’t know who we will be if we let it go.

But that guilt is dishonest (as I’ve written before here and here), and pointless. It manifests in a refusal to be happy, a denial that it is even possible. It sees us continuing to feel that pain, even welcoming in the grief of loss because it feels like we should. It feels as if pain and grief honours our journeys and our losses.

But I think that is wrong. Feeling joy, learning to be happy again, and embracing our lives without children is not a betrayal of our loss. Quite the contrary. I believe that it is a far better way to honour our journeys, our pain, the babies we lost or never had, the parents we would have been. When I’ve been able to help others who have experienced loss, or have followed me into a No Kidding life, I feel it has made some small sense of my loss. I remember the children I didn’t have, the babies I lost to ectopic pregnancy, and feel that I’m honouring them by sharing the lessons they taught me. And after all, what point is there in the losses of their lives and (if I’m stuck in grief and can’t move forward) mine?

Living well, growing and becoming better and happier people is the best way to remember who we are, and how we have pulled through. It honours our losses. It reminds us that we are valuable, and worthy, no matter what we’ve been through. It gives us purpose.

Honour yourself, honour your partner (if you have one), and honour those you have lost.
Honour them all by living well. 

Honour. It’s so much more productive than guilt.

Note: Apologies to all the North Americans who spell "honour" differently.  Thanks for your understanding!

It's okay to quit

It’s funny where I get inspiration for my blog posts. I’m listening to an interview with an author* about early and late bloomers that is, essentially, criticising the pressure put on children and young people to achieve early, to go straight to university /college after high school, and to dive into a high-achieving career, regardless of whether it is right for the individual, regardless of the toll that the pressure takes from then, and regardless of whether they are mentally ready for that. He talks about the benefits of patience, of waiting to find out who you are, of not succumbing to pressure.

In the midst of the interview, he mentioned that it doesn’t help that there is a “cult of tenacity” in US culture. My ears pricked up. It’s not exclusive to the US, of course. It’s very strong in many (but not all) western societies, and perhaps even stronger in many of the Asian societies that are familiar to me. And as we know, it’s not exclusive to studying or career paths.

“It’s okay to quit,” he said. “Quitting is just a decision that our energy is better used elsewhere. Tenacity has its merits, but tenacity that is stupidly applied will burn you out, and not get you where you want to go.” He used the example of over-training physically, or focusing on only one way of training even when it is not working for you.

Is this ringing any bells? Tenacity in and of itself is not guaranteed to get you where you want to go. Those of us who are living No Kidding lives know that. But we’ve had the messages of tenacity thrown at us most of our lives, and certainly in terms of those efforts to conceive and carry a child.

“Never give up!” say people who think that tenacity will achieve anything.

“Apply yourself and you can achieve anything,” say the people who were lucky enough to have achieved through (or perhaps even despite, tenacity), assuming that this is all anyone needs, when clearly it is not.

“Keep going,” say the people who got their desired results, convinced that what they think worked for them would work for us.

“You gave up!” they judge, thinking that tenacity is a virtue, and clearly we weren’t as strong or dedicated as they were, or that we just didn’t want it enough to continue.

So it is refreshing to hear people say that it is okay to quit, even in different contexts. Not that I need someone to tell me it was okay to quit. It was/is not anybody’s business but my own (and my husband’s). I’m at peace now.

But if talking about this starts to chip away at the grip that the cult of tenacity has on our societies then I will be happy. If it makes people think about how they put pressure on others, how they judge others, and how unfair this is, then I approve. And I approve especially if it allows people who are stuck in infertility’s waiting room to feel better about taking one of the other doors in order to escape. If it helps them doing so without the sometimes cripplingguilt and self-doubt that many of us face at this stage of the journey, then I wholeheartedly approve.

After all, to repeat his comment, quitting is just a decision that our energy is better used elsewhere. And when we’re at the end of the road, and have no expectation of success despite continued tenacity, then it is logical and healthy to choose to direct our energy and our hopes somewhere else.

* Here’s a link to an excerpt of the book – Late Bloomers by Rich Karlgaard.

You won't always be sad

A post recently made me think about grieving, and healing, and reminded me of how far I’ve come, and more importantly, how I got here.

Not So Mommy wrote about advice that it was “okay to be sad,just don’t stay there,” which sounds about right, doesn’t it? But whilst it might be true (as evidenced in Brandi's post), I don’t think it is helpful to tell someone not to "stay there” in sadness, because – whilst I recognise the temptation to do just that, when grieving becomes so familiar and almost comforting to us – when, in time, we want to move away from the sadness, we don't always know how to do that, which in turn can bring feelings of inadequacy or guilt or disbelief.

With the benefit of hindsight, I think the main thing I needed to know was that it would help me to welcome joy, and gratitude. Even in the midst of grief, there were occasional fleeting moments of happiness that visited unexpectedly –the feeling of sun on my back, or a hug from a loved one, or a surprising belly laugh at something silly. I felt guilty at first (which I explore here), but they also made me realise that joy was possible. It was still okay to be sad, but feelings of happiness, or gratitude, or joy, taught me that I wouldn’t stay there forever, and many years on, I know that is true. 

So I’d like to amend the quote to read, “It’s okay to be sad, just know that you won’t stay there.”

Miscellaneous Monday Musings

1.  I recently saw the issue of guilt come up (as it does regularly) in a blog, and recognised that fear of enjoying something new, or of finding that we appreciate part of our lives without children. This is such a common emotion, and so I just wanted to say again that enjoying any aspect of our lives that results from the fact that we don’t have children, or just feeling happy, does not mean that we think our lives are better than having children (though that thought is fine too), it just means we’re simply making the most of our life now.

2.  When our infertility doesn’t resolve with a child, suddenly we feel more vulnerable, our lives suddenly more reliant on one or two people in our lives who are important, and I think it’s not uncommon to fear the loss of our partners. I travelled internationally for work for many years before our losses and infertility, but was shocked at the strength of my emotions the first time I travelled without my husband after our infertility journey ended. I think it was normal to feel this too, but I’m pleased to say that I think it is also normal to recognise that the years pass, emotions calm, and now I feel much less vulnerable, or perhaps more accurately, I’m more comfortable with my vulnerability.

3.  Finally, I wanted to note that recently someone in my life implied that the things I was interested in were not important to other people – though I know that they meant parents. After a little twinge, I began to laugh, because I could immediately think of several parents who I know feel exactly the same as I do, and so I knew in my heart that the person making the comment was wrong, or they were just trying to cover up their own disappointments. So once again, confronting those negative comments and rejecting their very premise, helped me get over what could otherwise have been a very hurtful encounter. 

Gifts of Infertility Series - #24 – Self-Discovery

It’s been a long time since I wrote a post on this series, not because I’ve struggled to find a topic to write about, but because I wanted to make the most of the last two items in this series, and before now didn't quite feel I could commit to this.

The 24^th in my list of the Gifts of Infertility is really a summation of many of the other items. It is one of the biggest gifts of the heartbreak that came from infertility and loss. It is self-discovery, and hasn’t just helped me deal with infertility, but has spread into all aspects of my life.

Self-discovery and personal growth often come out of difficult times. Sure, there are plenty of people who go through difficult times and come out of it just as selfish as they were before, just as some people come out feeling much more afraid, less trusting, and more self-focused than they were before this. But after a long time, I certainly recognise the benefits of the personal growth that resulted from of those difficult years.

Self-discovery does not mean that we have all the answers. I think that self-discovery means that we are more open to the realities of who we are, and can face up to both our talents and our flaws.

I have a lot of flaws. I think I’m aware of most of them, as I admit them to myself even if I won’t always admit them to others – just in case they haven’t noticed (yes, I live in hope). What I’ve learned though is that it doesn’t help me if I berate myself over them. I’ve learned to try to change them if I can, to face them – as I faced my shyness when I left on a student exchange when I was 17 – as issues that need to be dealt with or lived with, rather than to judge myself because of these issues.

Self-discovery came to me when I allowed myself to grieve. It came to me when I allowed myself to be vulnerable, to really feel emotions, rather than tamp them down. It came to me when I needed to think about what made me happy, after spending a long time of being very sad. It came to me when I needed to look at what I had, because looking at what I didn’t have wasn’t doing me any good. It came to me when I showed self-compassion, and so could face my flaws without terrible guilt and self-hatred and shame. It came to me when I was as kind to myself as I would be to friends and family, when I stopped beating myself up.

Self-discovery came to me when I saw what worked, and was honest about what didn’t. It came to me when I dropped the judgement, and tried to be productive instead. It came to me when I learned more about others, and that helped me learn more about myself. Self-discovery came to me through hard work and tears. It came to me through love and compassion. It came to me from inside myself, and from learning from other wise women who were walking alongside me and helping me.

Self-discovery is a continuing journey, applicable in all aspects of my life. It is a journey that can still bring disappointment in myself, and could easily be halted by shame. But if I don’t allow the shame to take hold again, if I can commit to the honesty required to get past it, self-discovery can also deliver satisfaction and joy and confidence and growth. The best thing about it is that it can banish a lot of fear, and that results in self-imposed burdens tumble from my shoulders. That freedom has allowed me to embrace the future, whatever it might bring. Self-discovery truly is one of the ongoing gifts of infertility.

Putting your mind to it: The infertility version

You can achieve anything series – Part 2

The exact same reasons for the belief, or rather, the message, that I outlined in my previous post exist here in the infertility world:

Society: Our pro-natal society teaches us to believe that a) everyone will become a parent easily, and b) our place in society and our life’s value is inextricably linked with becoming a parent. When we begin to find that it is not as easy as we’ve been led to believe, we start to question ourselves, our value, and our place in society. We start to panic, and feel helpless. The message that we can in fact have children, as long as we try hard enough and never give up, fits all those societal expectations that we have absorbed.

Hope: We began trying to conceive because we wanted to be parents. Hope that we will achieve our goals keeps us going. Hope without control is tough, so we need to believe that we have some control over the process. So we have to hope that our efforts will allow us to achieve our goals. After all, we’ve been taught to believe that the alternative is not to be considered.

Altruism/Connection: “You can do it too!” “Never give up!” “We’ll be parents together!” Those who have been through infertility have known the torture of wanting something that is so central to our humanity, but seemingly outside of our ability to achieve it. It’s hard going through this, and hard to see others still going through it. So those  who have received their prize like to encourage those who are left trying, they want to connect and pass on some of their happiness and satisfaction. It’s well-intentioned, and done with love, I know. Those who are still going through it want to believe that these statements are true for everyone, including and primarily themselves. So they too will encourage others to keep trying, to keep believing, to keep wanting it enough.

Self-aggrandisement: After often years of effort, grief, loss, treatments, disappointment, it is perhaps natural for someone to want to congratulate themselves on achieving their goal, to feel that they made the difference, that they wouldn’t be pregnant without their specific efforts, their decisions that made this cycle different, their perseverance that shows they wanted it enough, that they tried hard enough, that they believed, that they were worthy. They want to feel they had some control, and that they can take some credit in their achievement. 

Commercial motivations: The fertility industry and adoption industries push success and opportunity and focus on the outcomes. It’s in their financial interests for people to keep going and going, to try new things, to keep believing it will work for them. Pamela writes extensively on this issue, and I bow to her superior knowledge.

Two of my commenters on my previous post provided other good reasons that also should be noted:

Fear: Valery suggested that maybe this is also out of fear  - fear that maybe they actually never had any control. If there was no control, it means that they could just as easily not have had the success, despite all their efforts.


Guilt: Ruby suggested that perhaps it was out of guilt. Survivor's guilt is easier to deal with if you believe that you had some control, and can take some credit, for the result.  

So, does wanting it enough work? Don't answer that - it will be my next post, and you can guess what I'm about to say!