My whole life I’ve learned that the whole of life can change in an instant. All it takes is a second. It’s one decision. One poor choice. One perfect moment. It’s meeting someone unexpected. Bumping into a human who will change the course of the rest of your life. It’s trusting a man who you should never have said hello to. Taking a walk with a stranger. Electing to walk home alone sober rather than wait for your drunken friends. Saying yes to going for a coffee with someone you hardly know. It’s getting sick. It’s deciding to persevere and keep going despite the odds. Life… it’s filled with so many “moments” and it’s steered us to where we are in this very moment.
My 7-week old baby lies against my chest. Fast asleep. He breathes deep, occasionally twitching, smiling, grunting and then peace and quiet returns. His rhythmic breathing pushing down against me feels so calming. They say skin to skin regulates a baby, but honestly I think it regulates me just as much. I feel utterly exhausted. Seven weeks of barely any sleep. Husband working non-stop, including weekends as he finishes work-ups for deployment. They say parenting can be lonely, well this week I’ve really felt that for the first time. But despite the loneliness and the sleep deprivation and the deep urge for some of my old life to return… I wouldn’t change any of it. This “moment”, this moment right here has been one I have prayed for and hoped for and longed for – more than anything else in my entire life. The moment Asher was born my heart split open in a way I NEVER knew was possible. Yes, people have always told me about this love that is unexplainable. But let’s be real for a second… unless you actually experience it for yourself, you’re never going to even slightly understand what they’re talking about. And then Asher happened. And suddenly everything I’d ever heard anyone say about this love, this feeling, this moment… just like that, it all made sense.
I look at his perfect little face. His long eye lashes. The little hairs on his head. His tiny lips. This moment… this boy… this miracle… every other moment in my life had to happen for THIS monumental moment to come to pass. Overwhelming feelings and emotions start to build up as I see snapshots of my entire life flash before me. Me as a young child, my family, my siblings, my parents. I remember happiness and light. Vacations and trips. School, sport, homework, friends. And then I see my 12-year-old self standing in that shower for hours trying to wash off the innocence that man had taken from her. An event that would change everything forever. I see the bright young girl fade away slowly, piece by piece. I see her find alcohol as a comfort until it no longer comforts enough. I see the instant drugs are introduced, the wrong friends are welcomed in and then the eye contact made between her and her trafficker. One moment. It’s all it took. I see decisions that took away the chance to go to the olympics. I see so much pain and torture and hurt that young girl had to walk through, all because she sought validation from a man who would almost completely ruin her. I see instances where she completely gave up but thankfully others stepped in, moments where her life almost ended so many times. I watch hope unfold only to be dashed all over again. Anger, hurt, pain… they fill so many pockets of years of moments, and yet so many periods of joy and success are sprinkled throughout. I see her meet her husband, and smile as one of her greatest miracles unfolds. I watch many more hard years transpire as they start trying for a child, only to be met by unimaginable disappointment month after month, which eventually turns into year after year. I watch her finally find out she’s pregnant, only to experience a horrendous miscarriage just a few months later. I see the tears. I see her begging God to save the child they waited for so long. I see her crumble to her knees when she realizes that miracle won’t survive. I watch her go through surgery to remove the very gift they had prayed for and then I watch the agonizing months that follow as she fights for her life from a hospital bed.
So many moments. Too many to recall. Too many to write down. And yet each one had to happen for me to end up right here. I look down at his perfect little face… I would re-live all of it in a heartbeat for him.
As I sit in my rocking chair, Asher remains fast asleep against my chest. I should put him down for a proper nap, but right now I don’t care. Five and a half years of waiting for him, I’m going to soak up every little moment I can. Because that’s all it is. They’re moments. The moments of him being this tiny will be gone before I know it. The moments of feeling isolated and lonely will pass. The sleep deprivation won’t last. These precious and incredibly intimate moments I get to experience with my son during the deep hours of the night, will soon be just a fleeting memory. Just like everything else… it doesn’t last.
Each moment gets us to where we are today. But we have to remember, they are only moments. I’ve walked through seasons that have felt like I literally lived in hell. And now I feel like there are times where my life couldn’t be better in any way. MOMENTS. They shift and they mold, they’re moving and adjusting constantly.
A few weeks ago after being discharged from the hospital with Asher, I ended up right back in the hospital a week later. A postpartum infection… but within days my crazy, unknown, undiagnosed autoimmune ‘thing’ started attacking my body again. Everything inside of me wanted to go into straight panic. Last year this thing almost killed me. This year I have a son. I have a baby who is fully dependent on me. When my oxygen started dropping and I lost the ability to walk again… I can’t explain the fear that wanted to take over my entire mind. My heart had exploded open with love in a way I had never experienced before. But with that came an unimaginable protection for this little boy. I couldn’t go through this again. And as I lay in the ICU, staring at my beautiful, helpless, innocent little baby, I made a decision that this was also just going to be a “moment” and it would pass. I knew deep down that my journey to becoming a mom was not ending with Asher being just a few days old.
Life… the whole of life… it’s made up of moments. Every single one of us is walking through something right now. Whether it’s good, bad, great, awful, incredible or impossible. We’ve all experienced a little of all of it. Today I want to encourage you that if it’s hard, if it’s painful, if it seems never-ending… it will end. It will change. Moments can seem like an eternity but in a blink of an eye – it’s gone. It’s over. Finished.
I never thought there was a whole life waiting for me beyond the prison walls of my past. And though there have continued to be heartaches and seasons of grief, intense hardships and enormous tragedy, I have encountered breathtaking epiphanies in the midst of it all. In the moments of stillness I see the incredible beauty that’s been able to emerge from the chaos and the tears. Moments, that without the impossible, would have never led me to my present right here. So whatever it is… keep going. Keep moving. Keep believing. Because life can change in an instant and you don’t want to miss the moment it happens.
I stand in the Atlantic Ocean jumping the waves as they attempt to crash over me. Some are too big to jump and I dive under them at just the right time. With each dive I hear the force of the wave breaking above me. The impact as it breaks – pounding… booming… swelling…nature’s most powerful force.
37 weeks pregnant, I feel my baby boy kick and turn inside of me as I take on wave after wave after wave. I hold my belly and for a moment all of time stops and the world slows down till it barely moves. I feel a surge of emotion and an unbelievable protection over something I have yet to hold or see or meet. And yet in the same breath the mountain that’s been emerging, somehow getting larger each day, looms before me.
I point my face towards the sun and close my eyes for a second. I feel so free in this moment. Standing in water there is no pain. No gravity pulling my belly downwards. My back doesn’t continuously ache and even my re-injured ribs, potentially my re-broken ribs feel better than they have done in months. In this moment there is nothing. Just the ocean, the waves, the sun, the wind and my body. Standing in unity. Flowing in sync.
I feel the swell of the water start to pull around my legs and I open my eyes just in time to dive under another thunderous wave. The peaceful moment disappears with a whirlpool of foam all around me as more waves come crashing through… one after another after another. There’s barely time to catch a breath.
The hospital wanted to induce me this week at 38 weeks. The baby is very big, but more than that I get the feeling they’re just trying to control the situation as much as they possibly can. For the first 6 months I had kept myself in a great place with the pregnancy. But after losing my OB practice at 30 weeks pregnant, because they suddenly decided out of nowhere I was too high risk to be seen by them any longer and refused to see me again… fear slowly crept in. For 6 weeks no one would see me. Finally a call from the medical director at the high risk OB group asking me to come in and see her personally definitely made things feel a little better, but for some reason I haven’t been able to quite shake that initial fear that managed to hook itself onto something refusing to let go.
“It’s not your pregnancy that’s high risk, it’s the labor that’s very high risk.” “Every patient here is high risk… you’ve been promoted to high HIGH risk.” “Your situation is so unknown and so unpredictable we’re going to have to have every specialist on standby just in case.” The words ring loud in my ears. High risk. Unpredictable. Unknown. Every medical professional I’ve seen keeps saying the same thing. No one knows how my body is going to respond going into a situation as traumatic and stressful as labor.
I jump through another wave. Emotions are suddenly high. I feel angry, lost, out of control and very fearful of the unknown. Every medical observance weighing me down, my feet planted in the sand, my legs suddenly feeling heavy. Last year when my body started attacking itself after the horrendous miscarriage I went through… it was one of the worst and hardest times of my life. Being stuck in a hospital bed for 6 weeks unable to move, needles every day, medications that made me feel out of it, the excruciating physical pain of constantly dropping oxygen and fighting for air, memory loss due to the lack of oxygen and intense body cramps from lying still for so long. When I let myself go back there I feel claustrophobic and panicky… Will my body do the same thing again when I go into labor? Or potentially as soon as the labor is over? Doctors have told me there’s a real possibility it could. They’re avoiding a c-section because surgery is a trigger for autoimmune. Labor or post labor can apparently also be a trigger.
I stare out into the depth of the ocean. There’s a point where the ocean meets the sky and you no longer know which one is which. Both sky and ocean – they just keep going. The vastness of both makes me stop and take a deep breath. Baby boy is coming one way or another. I’ve had an amazing pregnancy. Yes it’s been very painful. From my pelvis, to the crazy pressure that never let up, re-injuring my broken ribs, some breathing issues and an asthma flare up… but overall… I have worked out 6x a week at high intensity for 9 months straight without missing a beat, walked my dogs every day of the week, worked without having a sick day or missing a show, and not needed to change anything in my day-to-day routine. I mean that’s something I should be proud of! Now I just need to get through the final part. The most important part. Bringing this beautiful miracle into the world safely, while staying alive myself!
I dive under the next wave. I’ve probably been doing this for close to an hour. My legs feel less heavy again. Fear’s little hook hasn’t let go, but for a moment it doesn’t feel quite as intense. I gently place my hands back on my belly. He never stops moving. I visualize my ultrasound from the previous week and follow his spine, move over his little bottom and find his little hands and feet. Out of nowhere tears jump into my eyes. 5 and a half years I’ve waited for him. I didn’t think it would ever happen. I’m so close to holding you baby boy. I’m so close to smelling your head, and feeling those little feet which have been kicking me painfully for so long. We’re so close. I promise I’ll keep you safe. I promise I won’t let anything happen to you. Even if my body does start failing again, I promise I’ll bring you out safely.
The tears fall as I jump through the next wave. This one hurt as it crashes through me. I should have dove under that one but I didn’t have enough time between the two waves. That’s what the looming mountain in front of me feels like right now. Going from pregnancy to labor is going to be so quick, I won’t have time to make a decision. It’ll just happen. It’ll be painful but there’s no stopping it.
Fear has hooked himself firmly inside of me and for now he’s not going anywhere. But as I breathe in the ocean air deeply and continue to jump each wave I know I have a choice to not let fear be the only contender right now. Breathe, jump, breathe, dive… I’ve been given this miracle to carry and it was far from luck and most definitely not by my own doing that this pregnancy came to be OR that I was able to healthily carry him for the last 38 weeks. I breathe in HOPE. Deeply. Saturating as many parts as I can. I stare out again at where the ocean meets the sky. Limitless. Endless. Infinite. It’s all so far out of my control. Just like I can’t control these waves, or the vastness of the ocean, the sky that never ends… I can’t control how this baby will be born. I breathe it in deep. FAITH fills my lungs. You’ve got me this far in life. I know with every fibre in my being that You won’t leave me now. Whatever that looks like. Even when it feels so out of control, I KNOW He’s completely in control. I take one more deep breath… peace gently floods in. Like a warm sip of tea slides down your throat and thaws a cold body, peace tingles through me and numbs the nervous anxiety mixed within the fear as I stare up at the mountain looming before me. It still stands before me, towering high. But the peace makes it feel just a little less threatening. Whatever happens – I can do this.
I dive under one final wave, come up for air, turn and slowly make my way back to shore. The sand glistens in the sun before me. “We got this baby boy. You and me. We got this. No matter what happens.” The fear of the unknown, the uneasiness of the ‘what ifs’, the stress of the ‘what could be’… they continue to linger. But I breathe in deep again… hope, faith, peace. Hope, Faith, Peace. I look back at where the ocean meets the sky one more time. The waves crashing under it. In a matter of days or potentially a few weeks they’re all going to meet. Fear, what ifs, unknowns and stress… but also hope and faith and peace, beauty, a miracle and a promise complete. All in one place. They’re going to collide and meet and crash and pound and swell as my body brings this little one into the world. There’s no stopping it and there’s certainly no predicting it. There’s just moving forwards towards it. And in that moment I realize once again that all I can choose to do. Choose to move forward. Taking it all in my stride. Focusing on the good and putting my faith in the rest.
Ever walk through weeks, maybe even months, where life seems to just be relentless? One thing happens which leads into something else, which makes way for the next and cascades into a succession of rocks flying past you at high speed, some narrowly missing you and others just smashing you right in the face? Well I’m there. In the middle of the “rock storm”, dodging some and being taken out completely by others. Catastrophes never seem to fly solo. They work together as a team. Always appearing as a sequence of events. Why is that?
This last month has been exhausting. Four weeks ago I flew to the UK to see my family and friends for the last time before our little boy makes his entrance into the world. Very pregnant. It was supposed to be a happy time. Celebrating the miracle of a little life which we didn’t think would ever happen. The end of a very long wait and infertility journey. Within 36 hours of landing I got a call from one of THE absolute closest people in my life. My person. The one I speak to about quite literally everything. A mentor, a second mom, a best friend, spiritual leader, counselor, family, like I said… “everything”. A very large brain tumor had been identified and she needed emergency brain surgery to get it removed. BAM. Receiving news like that stops your world for a second. You have to catch your breath. Steady your feet. In 16 years I’ve never even stopped to think that anything could ever happen to my person. She’s just steady. Solid. Always there, no matter what. In 16 years it’s never crossed my mind that she’s also just a human – fragile, vulnerable and exposed to the same threats we all face every single day. Surgery wouldn’t happen for a few more weeks so I decided to put it in a little box, tuck it away on a shelf and ignore it for now. I get excited again about the 12 days ahead and focus my attention on the trip and my immediate surroundings.
48 hours after landing. Another call comes through and one of my little sisters has been hospitalized. I’m not going to go into details but the following few days were really tough. Feelings of helplessness, out of control desperation and an urge to want to step in and fix an awful situation took over. There’s not much worse than seeing someone you love so deeply go through something so hopeless and not be able do to anything about it. I took out another little box, stuffed it in, sealed it up and put it on the shelf next to the other box. “I’ll get back to that when I know how to fix it.”
72 hours into my trip. It’s 9am. My husband calls. Seeing as I’m 5 hours ahead of him I know immediately something is wrong. His dad, my father-in-law, Karl, has had a heart attack and is being air-flighted to an ICU near our house. As I sit on the couch in my mom’s house, 4000 miles away, life stops all over again. I focus on my breathing. Try to hold back the tears as I hear the panic in Ryan’s voice and a very deep ache in the pit of my stomach tells me I might not get to see Karl ever again. I shift gears and click into responsive mode. Start messaging our community for prayer and ask friends to check in on the dogs, knowing the following days will be a blur and we need help. After getting off the phone, the waiting game of news begins and a battle of uncertainty unfolds in my head. Do I fly back? I’ve been in England less than 3 days. So much money spent on tickets, I’m too pregnant to fly home and come back again. I only get to see my family a couple of times a year. I don’t know what to do. I spend the afternoon seeing my little sister in hospital, trying to focus on what’s in front of me, but struggling to push the weight of life off of me.
It’s supposed to be a happy time. A celebration of life. The miracle inside of me kicks continuously, keeping me grounded and reminding me of the good that’s still very much at play, despite the dark that’s trying to take over.
As the weekend progresses Karl starts to improve a little. I breathe. Maybe it’ll all be ok after all. I box up the heart attack, the ICU, the guilt of not being there supporting my family and my husband, I tape up the box and place it on the shelf next to the others. The shelf creaks a little under the weight, but it remains sturdy enough.
8 of my best friends throw me a surprise baby shower that weekend and I’m so thankful I stayed to enjoy some very special moments with my family and friends.
7 days into my 12-day trip Ryan calls. The news is not good. Karl has taken a turn for the worst and it doesn’t look like he’s going to make it after all. He asks if I want to FaceTime with him. I will never forget my last ever call with a man I loved so very very much. He was so frail. The moment I saw him I knew I would never get to hug him goodbye. Never hold his hand again. Never be able to introduce our baby boy to him, the promise he’d prayed for alongside us and cried so many tears at Christmas when we shared the news of pregnancy with him. I knew as I looked into his eyes and he told me how much he loved me that I wouldn’t make it back in time. That FaceTime was the hardest call I’ve ever been on. Little pieces of my heart shattered as we spoke and said our goodbye’s. I asked him to hold on. He promised me he would try. The guilt of my selfishness took over and I released Karl from that promise and told him “it’s ok. You can let go. I know one day I will see you again.” Karl passed away that evening.
I had already changed my flights and was on the next flight home cutting my trip short by 4 days which broke my heart all over again.
Tired. So tired and so emotional I sit on the plane. 9 hours to Atlanta, transfer, then on to Norfolk. The baby sits high against my diaphragm. This is even more uncomfortable than on the way over. It’s hard to breathe. The moment the seatbelt sign turns off I get up and go and stand at the back. I’m so tired. I try and sit down again, it’s really hard to breathe. I stand for the next 7 hours. Legs aching, back throbbing, fortunately the team of flight attendants are amazing, checking up on me every few minutes. Bad turbulence hits. I have to go sit down. Breathe. It’s so tight. No matter what position I attempt to sit in, I can’t get quite enough air. Turbulence stops, I immediately stand up. Another hour passes. I’ve now been stood for 8 hours straight. Turbulence hits again. You’ve got to be kidding. I sit down. Why is my chest so tight sitting down? I must have looked very uncomfortable because a flight attendant comes over and checks my circulation… “You need to be on oxygen, like now”. I go to the back with her and get put on oxygen. “Please body, please don’t start doing this to me now. Please just get me home.” I spend the remaining two hours of the flight on oxygen. A ground medical team is waiting for me when we land in Atlanta. They tell me to get to a hospital but all I want to do is get home. I get cleared to take my last flight home and eventually make it back. My chest remains tight as I walk into my house full of mourning family. 24 hours of travel has taken it out of me but I know now is not the time to collapse in a heap on the floor!
The weekend passes, people in and people out. I never fully realized how busy life gets after a loved one passes. Monday hits. My chest has continued to get tighter. If I sit I can’t breathe. I know my oxygen hasn’t been at 100% for a few days now. If it’s my asthma I’ve pushed it to the limit many a times. “Chi, it’s not just your body right now”, I remind myself firmly. Against everything in me, pushing aside my life-long hospital fear, which I’ve realized will probably never go away, Ryan takes me to the hospital. My oxygen is low and a slight wheeze has started. Oxygen, breathing treatments, steroids… I know the drill. The ER is rammajammed crazy. People everywhere. All I want to do is GET OUT and GO HOME. But I know the little boy growing inside of me is more important than anything else now. Of course this had to happen. Because life isn’t quite crazy enough. The doctor comes in after multiple breathing treatments and allows me to take the oxygen off. Within 5 minutes it drops into the low 80s and immediate fear strikes. Oh no. Please don’t let this happen again. Has my body just been under too much stress? Has it had enough? I reason with myself… “My asthma has flared up so many times and can last a few days. Do not go to worst case scenario right now. Ur fine. It’ll stabilize.” Thankfully it did. After 7 hours of breathing treatments, oxygen, steroids and whatever else, my levels stabilized enough and I was able to go home. For some reason unsettled feelings linger, but I know I don’t have time to think them through right now… I find another box, stuff them away and balance it on the shelf next to the other boxes. The shelf wobbles, but continues to hold.
The memorial service the following week was beautiful. Karl, a Master Chief in the Navy, 30 years of service, was honored, remembered and celebrated. Such a beautiful, kind and incredibly generous soul. Me and him had such a special connection together. I will miss him forever. Within a few days the last remaining people staying at our house leave and suddenly for the first time in weeks, it’s quiet.
It’s Tuesday afternoon and I’m on my way to physical therapy. My phone rings. It’s one of my OB’s. I have a team of them, not just one. “Hey Chi, it’s Dr Webber. After your asthma attack last week I decided to really look into your file and ended up spending 3 1/2 hours reading every single note on what happened to you last year. I brought it into our team meeting this morning and we spoke about you for over an hour and unfortunately we have decided you’re actually too high risk and you can no longer be on our service. We’re referring you to Maternal Fetal Medicine and that means you also won’t be able to deliver your baby at our hospital as they are linked to Norfolk General.” The words continue to come out of her mouth but somewhere during the conversation my brain shut down and panic starts setting in. I’m 30 weeks pregnant. They’ve known about my case for 27 weeks and it was brought up multiple times in the first month of my pregnancy. I have a hard time trusting people, especially medical people, and when I found an all-female team linked to the hospital who saved my life I knew this was the right team to be under. It’s taken most of my pregnancy to finally start feeling comfortable with them. I saw Maternal Fetal Medicine in my first month of pregnancy, it was an awful experience, horrendous appointment, horrible little man doctor who once again told me I was too complicated and they didn’t know what to do with me so just told me to stay under my current OB team. On top of that, Norfolk General was the very hospital who declined my transfer request TWICE last year, because my case was too complicated and they didn’t know how to handle it. I was absolutely NOT transferring to MFM or delivering at a hospital who knows nothing about me or about how to handle what happened last year IF that was to happen again. The conversation with my OB finishes and I sit in the car staring out the window. I can’t take any more. I’m not sure what a mental breakdown feels like, but I’m pretty sure I’m not too far off. The OB told me to still come to my Thursday appointment so there wouldn’t be a lapse of care while my case was being transferred. “Breathe Chi. We’ll figure it out.” I scramble to find another box, stuff it all in and push it onto the end of the shelf.
That night I call my person who is prepped and ready to go into major brain surgery early the following morning. I don’t sleep much. My brain is full. Waking up early the next day I start praying. “Please let everything go fine. Please don’t let her die. Please don’t let anything go wrong.” Five hours feel like an absolute eternity. It takes longer than expected. I sit in my car waiting for news. Tears start to fall. Thoughts start moving to worst case scenario. A text comes through: “She’s alive. Surgeons got what they needed to get. She’ll be in recovery for a few hours before moving to the ICU.” I breathe. Thank. You. God.
I feel fragile as I walk into my OB practice. I just need to be able to address my concerns, ask some questions and find some reassurance that everything will be ok. There’s one more OB on the team I haven’t met yet. She’s my provider for today’s appointment. She walks in rushed and blurts out a whole spiel on why it’s good I’m being transferred. I wait a moment for her to stop talking and attempt to say something. She cuts me off. I feel my emotions building. Stay calm, stay calm. I try to ask a question, she cuts me off again. She continues, disrespectful, no empathy, barely looks at me, just spewing words. I finally look at her and say “I’m not delivering at Norfolk and I’m not transferring to MFM.” She turns around and finally looks at me… “We can stand here all day talking about it and going round in circles but we’re not keeping you on our service.” I get up, look at her, sarcastically thank her for her time, support and empathy and storm out of my appointment.
I run out of the building and find my car. I slam the door shut and grip the steering wheel as I stare up at the sky through the window. Tears fall heavy. Crying loud, uncontrollable. I try and find my phone to call my person and realize I can’t. She’s in the ICU completely sedated. I cry harder. And suddenly out of nowhere the shelf comes crashing down. The boxes split open and every emotion comes spilling out. Karl’s death, my sister, my family being thousands of miles away, my person lying in the ICU, this baby. THIS BABY. How am I going to deliver this baby without a plan, without a team. I’d kept my fear of delivery at bay for 7 months and suddenly all the fear hits. What if my body does attack itself again during delivery? What if I can’t keep him safe? What if my asthma keeps coming back. I can’t stop the tears. I can’t stop the fear. The thought of starting again with a different OB team, a team with a bunch of men on it, any one of them could be on call the night I go into labor. The thought of walking into a hospital I’ve never even been to. For a moment I struggle to keep myself grounded. I feel the stress in my body. Painful cramps all over my abdomen. My chest tight. I haven’t felt this alone in a very long time. I’m too complicated. No one knows what to do with me. A desperate craving comes over me to feel safe. To have a plan. For someone to tell me what to do. How to safely deliver this baby in just 8 weeks time. I’m suddenly incredibly aware that my mental health in all of this is as important as my physical health to actually keep this baby and myself safe.
As I sit on the couch writing this blog, baby boy hasn’t stopped moving, kicking or punching. Every now and again I have to gently push him out from under my ribs or off my bladder! I smile as he reminds me every day of the miracle he is. The rocks have been flying, life has been relentless, I feel utterly overwhelmed with everything going on right now, but this miracle stares back at me. There is a full baby underneath my skin. Moving and growing! I place my hands on my belly and feel his kicks, his little head, I watch my belly move in the craziest of ways as he flips and turns over attempting to find more space! Most of the time there’s not much you can really control in this life, but I can control what I focus my gaze on. Do I focus it on the chaos surrounding me? The loss? The hurt? The things I can’t control? The things I fear? The things I’m terrified of? People who have let me down? No. If I focus on those things I’ll drown. Instead I look at my unborn baby and remind myself of the miracle that’s not just in front of me, but literally inside of me. I remember God’s promises and all the good. I remind myself that the storms will come, but they won’t last. The rocks that hit hard will hurt. But the pain will fade. And even though, with just weeks to go, I have no plan and no OB team and I’m scared and painfully aware how unpredictable my body is and this birth might be, I’m not alone. I’m so far from being alone. And somehow it will work out.
Our entire lives consist of storms, sunny days, rain, clouds, rocks, tornadoes and more storms. There are moments of pure joy, and many moments of pain. Seasons of hard and lonely, feelings of being out of control and utterly overwhelmed. Periods of brokenness, betrayal and stretches of attempting to survive, living purely in survival mode. But I think we can all look back and also see so much beauty showered throughout. How can we appreciate the light, if we haven’t also experienced the darkness? I know there is so much goodness out there. And even though life has felt relentless and I’m completely exhausted and depleted, the good will always override the bad and the light will always overcome the dark.
There’s a saying out there that I’m sure most of us are pretty familiar with. It goes a little like this… “Life begins at the end of your comfort zone.” The man behind this very famous quote is Neale Donald Walsch. Why would he come up with a quote like that? Honestly… I’m not entirely sure I agree with it! Life BEGINS at the end of your comfort zone?! Most of the time it feels like life ends or it starts hanging on by a thread when you enter into the discomfort zone. It definitely doesn’t feel like it begins. I look back at some of the hardest times in my life and it most certainly wasn’t pleasant, enjoyable or even at times “worth living”. And yet this quote intrigues me. What does it really mean?
I open up a browser on my laptop and type in “Neale Donald Walsch… who is he?” Wikipedia pops us. A catholic man on a quest for spiritual truth. Actor, screenwriter, and speaker. I scan the page and stop about half way down. In the early 1990s he suffered a series of crushing blows. A fire destroyed all of his belongings, his marriage fell apart, and a car accident left him with a broken neck. He ended up alone, unemployed and homeless. Living out of a tent, he collected and recycled aluminum cans just so he could eat. It was out of this complete desperation and during this all-time low that he started writing. His first book “Conversations with God” became an international best-seller and remained on the New York Times Bestseller List for 135 weeks! He has since published 28 books, which have been translated into 37 languages. Today he has a net worth of over 52 million.
I pause… wow. I hadn’t quite expected that. I assumed some rich old philosopher had once upon a time come up with this quote because it sounded wise. Felt good. Wrote it down without much thought behind it. And yet the truth behind this quote was actually far from it.
“Life begins at the end of your comfort zone.” Suddenly the quote takes on a whole new meaning. A man who once lived in a tent, with almost nothing to eat, no friends, no family, no belongings, no comfort… he had been ripped away from comfort and entered into complete discomfort. And yet this very season of discomfort would bring him his greatest success, purpose and triumph.
I look through the window of my office and stare out through the trees to the bright blue sky above. Not a cloud to be seen. No wind. No movement. Just quiet. Still. Maybe the quote isn’t as far fetched as I once thought. I think back to my hardest days as a teenager. My trafficking days. Days which turned into years, years which I didn’t think would ever end. Trapped in a cycle of addiction, abuse, pain and pure evil. It most certainly didn’t feel like my life had begun. And yet now looking back it’s exactly where it had started. “Life begins at the end of your comfort zone”. It doesn’t say “life get’s good at the end of your comfort zone”. No. It says it begins. It begins because eventually we can look back and realize we’re where we’re at BECAUSE of that beginning. For Mr Walsch his life wasn’t milk and honey, flowers and paradise… so far from it. Homeless, alone, hungry, desperate… THAT’S where his life started. Away from all comfort, everything he knew. It was in THAT moment that he could be used for his full purpose. To his full potential. If his marriage had survived, if his house hadn’t burnt down, if he hadn’t broken his neck… would he have ever gotten to such a place of desperation to where he wrote a number 1 international bestselling book? I’m gonna take a guess and say NO! He needed his comfort to end so that he could start the life he was supposed to live.
I rub my belly. Baby boy is kicking. I’ll be 26 weeks pregnant this week. Pregnancy has been so tough. I’ve felt awful for most of the last 6 months. There’s been a lot of pain, so much discomfort. Have just felt rough, most days. And yet this miracle… it still leaves me speechless. I think of the journey it’s been. The five years of infertility. All the horrendous procedures, triggering appointments. The miscarriage. Weeks of hospitalization. Having to rebuild my whole body. And yet here I am, 26 weeks pregnant, with a healthy, growing, kicking, baby boy living inside of me. A dream I never thought would come to pass. I’m experiencing the reality of that dream happening right now. Life begins at the end of your comfort zone. The moment I fell pregnant I entered into a whole new season of leaving comfort behind. Again. But I know in a few months time when I’m holding my beautiful baby boy in my arms, it would have all been worth it. Every moment of discomfort. Every moment of pain and exhaustion.
Had I never been trafficked I would never be doing the job I get to do today. Had I never walked through the different seasons of trials and pain, I wouldn’t know the people I do. I wouldn’t be married to Ryan. I wouldn’t be living in America. I wouldn’t be living this life. I wouldn’t be who I am right now. Comfort looks amazing. And it feels great. But it doesn’t ever push us to leave, or change, get better or try something new. During my most desperate times I’ve seen the most growth. Through the deepest pain I’ve experienced the most profound healing and developed the most real and authentic relationships. Out of my greatest hardships, unbelievable purpose was born.
It’s scary walking into the unknown. Whether we are pushed into it unexpectedly, walk into it by choice or emergency crash land right into the heart of it… discomfort never feels good. The unknown is scary, unfamiliar, at times lonely and isolating, it can feel unsafe and disconcerting. Many of us run away from it, most do whatever they can to avoid it. Sometimes you can, most of the time you can’t. But even when you can, what opportunities are you missing? And when you can’t, how are we choosing to handle the uncertainty around us?
When I moved to America 7 years ago I cried on the plane. I was leaving behind all I knew. Family, friends, work, everything familiar, everything I’d ever known… 4000 miles away. I was terrified to start over. Fearful of finding new friends, a whole new community, work. I had married the man I loved but had to leave everything else behind to be with him. Life starts at the end of your comfort zone. 7 years ago I cried thinking I could never build a better life than I already had. I was so wrong. It took being uncomfortable for a while and stepping fully into the unknown to build something bigger and better than I could have ever imagined possible.
Whatever place you’re in right now. However uncomfortable, unfamiliar, unknown… remind yourself today that the unknown doesn’t last. The emotions don’t stay. The feelings, they pass. I can look back at every single difficult moment I’ve had to walk through and can see something better that was born because of it. There’s a purpose you need to fill, a task you need to accomplish, a dream that can only come to pass by walking into the unknown… by persevering through the pain. Life begins at the end of your comfort zone. Keep going, keep fighting and keep moving forward.
Today is a strange day. Honestly, it’s been a strange week. TODAY… Sunday September 3rd 2023 was my due date. Due to give birth to a miracle. A beautiful baby. I’m supposed to be huge, ready to pop, and life should be on the verge of changing forever. I didn’t think I’d ever get the privilege of being a mom to my own child. I almost was. And then I wasn’t. In the 9 months that have passed since finding out I was pregnant so much has happened. It’s been a year I will always remember yet in so many ways wish I could forget. This last week a friend and a colleague went through exactly what I did. Found out she was pregnant, miscarried and ended up going through surgery. You think you’re past the emotions. Dealt with the grief, the disappointment, and the pain. And then out of nowhere it’s back and it’s raw. You’ve ripped the scab off the wound and it’s bleeding all over again.
Instead of finishing up the baby room I’m out training. Today’s early session is a bike, run, bike, run. It’s less than 3 weeks until my triathlon. This session is intense. My legs are burning, heart is racing and the sweat dripping in my eyes is making it hard to see. I feel sad. The void of what should have been echoes loudly each time my feet hit the ground. Why does it always have to be so hard? Nothing has ever been simple. And it’s been far from easy.
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I’ve transitioned back to my bike for round two. Holding an 18mph the wind races past me and I’m thankful for the perfect training temperature right now. It’s been a tough summer of training with the heat and humidity. It didn’t seem to matter if it was 6am or 3pm, the heat has been suffocating and the humidity has made running and biking ridiculously tough! I shift in my saddle. Hamstrings are burning. I smile… my physical therapists would be proud right now. A year ago I couldn’t even get my hamstrings on.
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I look straight ahead, the perfect blue sky hangs lightly above, trees tower up on either side and the water glistens through. All I can hear is the wind and the birds. I want the sadness to lift. The heaviness to drop off. It’s been weighing me down all week. It’s just a date. Today doesn’t have to be a representation of what should have been. It can represent “what is” instead. What can today portray? I’m distracted by my burning hamstrings. They’re really on fire right now! I think back to when I started physical therapy. 16 months ago I walked into Thrive oblivious to how one place and the people within it would change my life forever. I was so broken. Physically and mentally. Injured, hurting, desperately hopeless and on the verge of giving up on life completely, I walked in and was met by an overwhelming sense of love, understanding, patience and care. Who knew back then that those very people would become some of my absolute closest friends.
They started working on my body and some things finally started to make sense. All the years of trying for a baby, the treatments I’d gone through, exploratory surgery, the endless procedures… The list goes on. My physical therapist told me I could never have fallen pregnant because my pelvis was rotated the wrong way and half my body wasn’t functioning as it should! Years of abuse takes its toll on a body and I had a long road to recovery but I was finally in a place where healing could start to take place. The mental healing which started happening alongside the physical healing was something I could never have imagined. Turns out, when they started working on my body, a lot of the trauma started releasing too. I started being able to sleep again, the headaches lifted, the nightmares stopped, the deep fog I had been living in for months started lifting and I felt my old self slowly re-emerge.
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I continue biking. Sweat dripping from my face. Right, left, right, left. Suddenly the burning hamstrings are no longer an inconvience. They are a momentous reminder of the bad that turned into good. Exercise and sport is what has kept me going for most of my life. It’s my therapy, the way I deal and process everything I’ve gone through and continue to walk through. When the constant injuries started I didn’t know how to exist and keep all the emotions and restlessness at bay. I smile at the realization that it was those very injuries that led me to Thrive which not only opened the door to a whole new community of family and friendships, but it would be the very place that would start healing a lot of my body both physically and mentally.
Yes, today represents what should have been. What could have been if pain and hardships didn’t exist. Today there have been tears. Tears for the loss, the grief, the dreams that shattered and the yearnings fractured. And yet, in so many ways today also represents hope and thankfulness.
If I’d never gone through all those injuries, I would never have found Thrive. If I’d never walked through the doors of Thrive, I would never have found a new level of healing for my body and find the physical therapist who would actually understand my body in a way not many others ever could and no one else ever has. I also met one of my best friends Brittany through Thrive. She happened to be training for a triathlon. The day she was supposed to do her triathlon, a storm came through and despite months of training she wasn’t able to do her triathlon. Crying on the phone to me that day, my heart broke for her, and I said we would train together and I would do the next triathlon with her. The insane training for an Olympic distance triathlon and building up cardio levels to a whole new extreme is what ended up saving my life in hospital 8 months later. The miscarriage? Yes, it was horrendous and unbelievably painful. It was also what caused me be in hospital for 6 weeks fighting for my life. And yet, I actually fell pregnant. Something that had once been impossible had actually happened.
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I lift my bike back onto the bike rack and start running. The final leg of my training session. The right side of my body is cramping. My legs feel like they can’t move anymore. Right, left, right, left. Just keep running. “You’ve got this”, I tell myself. Less than five months ago I was lying in a hospital bed, had lost 18 lbs of muscle and couldn’t walk more than a few feet without my oxygen bottoming out. Today, I’m back training 10+ times a week and achieving what the doctors had told me would be impossible.
I think back to every moment that has gotten me to this very place. Every tear shed, every pain endured, the lowest moments, the anguish, the desperation, the not seeing a way out, the voices inside telling me to give up, not feeling like I could take another step. Man, there have been more moments than I could ever attempt to say out loud or write down. And yet every single moment has had its purpose. And every single bit of darkness has pushed me into a light so bright I have to squint to take it in or see it for what it really is. God has used everything. Not just some things. Everything. Even other people’s darkness.
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Today is going to represent hope. Hope that the impossible happened. Hope that I’m alive and breathing and here to continue experiencing this life. Hope that my life will continue to be a miracle. And hope that I will be able to help many others along the way.
As I finish out my run, the sweat burning in my eyes, I’m thankful for all the dark times that have catapulted me into this very moment. The pain is real and the darkness can be dark. The tears today will come and go. But that’s ok. Because ultimately I have gained more than I have ever lost and I have found a depth to this life I otherwise could have never possessed. Today. Today I choose to represent hope.
It’s a calm and peaceful Saturday morning. I hadn’t planned much in for today which is rare for me! I only flew back home two days ago. My trip to the UK had been amazing and refreshing! It had been exactly what I’d needed to rest and recuperate from surgery. The miscarriage, as awful as it had been, seeing friends and family back in the homeland made the pain of it all seem a little less intense. I stare at the vacuum as I’m attempting to push it through our brand new rug and get all of the dog hair. The new rug is the perfect color to conceal Charlie and Gracie’s mammoth amount of shedding! I pause… my chest feels tight.
Three days ago, right before I flew back home to Virginia Beach, my sister had gotten sick. “Don’t you dare give that to me!” I’d jokingly said to her. But unfortunately the germs were shared. No surprise really after what my body had gone through the past few weeks. Immune system was down and I was still recovering. It had been years since I’d been sick. My throat felt like I was swallowing razors and my skin was hurting bad. Strange symptoms but I was thankful it wasn’t covid or anything more serious.
I continue pushing the vacuum through the rug. I should have bought a less fluffy one! I pause again… Too familiar with these symptoms, l start praying against any asthma exacerbation. I sit on the couch for a minute and reply to a message from a friend. I share my latest symptoms with her… “looks like the head cold is moving into my chest.” Before I get back up she’s responded. “Go to Patient First and get a breathing treatment before it gets worse!” I look around the house. I’m almost done cleaning, might as well finish. I get the mop out and start mopping as I consider my options… Ignore the tight chest and pretend I’m fine, or actually be pro-active and go to Patient First. I hate going to the doctors. I avoid it at all costs. But usually by avoiding it, I make it worse and end up in hospital or if it’s asthma related – the ICU. I decide to make the wise decision, be pro-active and head out to Patient First.
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It’s 7am. The sun shines brightly into my room as another new morning breaks. For a moment life feels normal. But as my eyes adjust to the light I’m quickly reminded it’s not. I hear beeping around the unit, nurses talking as shift change takes place, doors opening and closing, call bells going off, an IV takes up most of my arm, bruising from hundreds of needles take up the rest and a central line sits painfully in my neck. Life hasn’t been normal for a while.
I had spent maybe all of 10 minutes at Patient First before an ambulance was called. My wheezing had gotten worse by the time I saw a doctor and my oxygen levels hovered in the 80s. My chest had continued to get tighter and by the time we’d arrived to the ER I was ready for the usual magnesium and steroid drips, breathing treatments and oxygen. I’d hoped it would only last a few hours, my asthma would clear and I’d be on my way home. Never in a million years did I expect what was about to unfold.
As I desperately stare out the window wishing I could transport myself outside and feel the wind on my face, it’s hard to keep the tears from falling. More than five weeks had passed. Memories are blurry, time obscure, an hour in this bed could feel like days yet five weeks had vanished just like that. For a second words fail me as I try to take in the magnitude of what had unfolded and attempt to understand the reality of what was still taking place.
Four hours on and my asthma hadn’t cleared after getting to the ER. Pneumonia was also found at the bottom of my lungs and the doctor came in and told me he was admitting me. I was frustrated and annoyed. Sometimes I hated my body so much. First a ridiculously complicated miscarriage… now this. Really? It’s only February. As I was wheeled to Unit 4D Room 375 at Sentara Princess Anne Hospital, I was trying to get my head around spending the night here. I had too much to do. I had a crazy work-week coming up, scripts to write, stories to shoot, shows to produce. I didn’t have time to spend tonight in hospital. Little did I know I wouldn’t physically be walking out of there for the next 40 days. FORTY. I was about to be bed bound for almost 6 weeks.
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The thing about life is that you can’t predict it. You don’t know what’s going to happen from one moment to the next. Sure, you can plan and organize, you can attempt to have your life straightened out, ordered and efficient. But the reality is that in a second everything can change and there’s nothing you can do to control it or have any influence over it. I went from being a 34-year-old athlete, training 9x a week for a triathlon, working 60 hour weeks as a producer in live television to being bed bound in a hospital unable to walk more than a few steps without my oxygen bottoming out.
One moment I was healthy and unbelievably fit. The next… my lung capacity dropped to 11%. I went from having a resting heart rate of 43 BPM to not being able to walk 5 steps without it sky rocketing to 150. I went from being able to breathe without oxygen sitting at 98-100% to dropping into the 70s, 60s and even the 50s anytime I removed the oxygen or tried to walk. Life… you can’t predict it. You most certainly can’t control it.
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For 6 weeks I went through every test. Hundreds of needles. More doctors than I’ve ever seen in my entire life. And yet no answer was discovered. There were theories, hypotheses, beliefs and suspicions, yet nothing concrete was found. 8 rounds of IV IG later and I saw slight improvement in my significant muscle loss. Some strength had returned. Yet my oxygen continued to drop. Eventually plasmapheresis was decided on and a central line was put in. I’d go through 5 rounds of treatment every day other. The Red Cross came in to do it and they would take out all my plasma and replace it with new plasma. I felt hopeful, yet also completely desperate. If this didn’t work… would I ever be able to go home? Would I ever be able to return to the life I loved? Would I ever be able to breathe again without being attached to oxygen?
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As I sit on the couch in my living room I feel every emotion return as I think back to the last few months. There’s been a lot of tough moments in my life. Too many to count. But I can honestly say the last 6 weeks have been some of the hardest of my entire life. Those who know me, know I can’t sit still for more than 5 minutes without getting antsy. 40 days being bed bound was difficult on a level I will never quite be able to describe. I never knew how much pain your body could be in from not moving. I never realized how unbelievably sore restless legs and a restless body was. About halfway through my time in hospital I remember praying to Jesus, not just praying, but crying out and asking if I was going to die? I’ve come close to death so many times. Yet this felt different. I remember asking God that if this was it to give me a peace about it because I wasn’t ready to go. I loved this life. I felt like I had so much more to give. Tears flooded down my cheeks as I thought about leaving Ryan, my family and friends, the unbelievable life I had been given, the people in it and the incredible job I loved so much. I wasn’t ready. But for once I also wasn’t quite sure how this was going to play out. My body was exhausted, depleted, weak, I had lost 15lbs of muscle, my vision was getting more and more blurry and with every oxygen drop my memory was getting more hazed. I was on so much medication and sedation that I didn’t remember entire days or people visiting. Full conversations were lost and it was hard to stay in the moment. I’m not a big cryer yet the tears that have hit have come from a deep place I didn’t know existed and pray I never have to feel again.
And yet there was so much beauty all around. Isn’t it amazing how the deepest and darkest of places brings out the brightest of lights? You can’t see light unless there’s an element of dark. When it’s pitch black, the light can radiate at full intensity. Hundreds of people walked through the doors of the hospital to come and see me. Guitars were brought in, full worship sessions broke out. Thousands of prayers were spoken over me from all over the world. People I had never even met heard about my story and were praying and sending messages of support. I met and got to know so many people in the hospital because I was there for so long. From doctors to nurses, the respiratory team, bed transport people, security, food & nutrition, PT’s, check in people, the list goes on & on. Some of those people have genuinely changed my life forever. I got an inside look into the unbelievable and life-changing job the nurses do. Without them I wouldn’t be alive today. They are the glue which keeps hospitals together and I never understood how hard their jobs were until I watched them in action for 6 weeks straight. I cannot put into words the way they have impacted my life. From helping me with puzzles, to popping in every hour to make sure I was doing ok, so many of them – even when they weren’t my nurse for the day were invested in my journey and recovery and fought for me and with me to get to the bottom of what was going on. They supported me through my worst and celebrated with me in the highs. There are not enough words in this world to thank them and help them understand how their support kept me going through some of the hardest moments of my life. I look back and even though it was dark, I see light which far engulfs the dark. I see the miracles and the testimonies. I see God so close even when He seemed so far. I see the hundreds of coffee dates I got to have with people, the relationships which were deepened and the new friendships which were formed. I see the fight I found in myself even when I didn’t think I had any fight left. I see a community of people who surrounded me and lifted me up when I was sinking. I’m blown away by the support I’ve received these past months and as I walked out of the hospital I walked out different, knowing I’ll never be quite the same again. There have been tears, and deep sorrow, intense hopelessness and extreme pain. But there have also been miracles and highs, incredible joys and real genuine happiness. I’ve always said I’ll never understand life. This has once more confirmed that statement. And yet with each season of not understanding I seem to learn more about myself, God and the journey I’m on.
Challenges changes people. Pain deepens you. As I reflect back on the tough I also know it’s made me stronger. It’s made me more determined to not waste a moment. To live purposeful and have a faith that’s unwavering.
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April 6th 2023 I was officially discharged from the hospital. The day before Good Friday. I had been in hospital exactly 40 days and was going home for Easter. Plasmapheresis had worked. After the 3rd treatment I was able to come off oxygen and after the 4th treatment I was able to walk around my unit. By the 5th treatment I was like a new person.
I still have no answers. The journey continues as we try to figure out what happened and if it could return. It’s hard not knowing and occasionally it makes me feel a little wobbly. Cancer, autoimmune diseases, many words have been thrown around yet nothing has been fully confirmed. Tests have indicated my nerves and brain weren’t communicating with each other and more tests confirmed there was something attacking my diaphragm and respiratory system. No name however. And no official diagnosis means no way of knowing how to avoid this from happening again. Fear wants to take charge but I refuse to let it. I might not have the answers but every day I’m given opportunities. Do I live them out in fear of the unknown? Or do I make the most of what’s in front of me and what I’ve been given? Whatever has been attacking my body these last months could come back. If it’s autoimmune it can flare up. But I’ve decided I’m not going to live my life in fear. I’m not going to expect a flare-up. Life is too short and the opportunities too few.
10 minutes before I walked out of the hospital last week a code blue was called on my unit and a man, someone’s father, died before being barely resuscitated and run to the ICU. As I listened to the man’s daughter screaming and crying right outside of my room, it was a very real reminder that life is short and I’m unbelievably thankful to be alive. I’ve heard multiple code blue’s over the last 6 weeks. People have died. And people will continue to die. I got to walk out of there alive, despite having had some close calls. And for that I am indebted with gratitude.
I would love to say that the hard is over but really a big part of this journey is only just beginning. Being bed bound for 40 days is no joke. The muscle loss has been extreme and it’s definitely taken a toll on my body. To get back to the level of fitness I was at is proving to be very painful, hard and will be far from a walk in the park. It hurts to walk and at times it hurts to breathe. But I’m determined and I know I’ll get there no matter how hard it is or how much it hurts.
I’m alive. And I’m home. I’m off oxygen and I can move. There were many moments where I wasn’t sure what the rest of my life was going to look like. So I’ll take the hard and walk head first into it. Because I’m breathing and thankful beyond words that I get to keep on journeying out this thing called life!
As I stood on the top deck of our cruise ship, overlooking the Caribbean Sea, the sun had started rising and we glided over the waves without even the slightest movement. 8 ft waves didn’t touch this machine. I could have balanced a cup of coffee on the railing if I’d wanted to. The sky impressively stretched out its arms before me, the colors radiating, penetrating, exhaling saturation with each passing breath. I popped in my AirPods and sank deep into the worship immersing me into this moment even further. Not a bit of land in sight. Not another soul to be seen. As the darkness of the night collided hard with the morning light, I stood on top of this impressively huge ship, spanning almost a quarter of a mile long and breathed in the sea air. A moment I would never forget. Breathing out the hard. The suffering. The pain. A life that had never been easy. And yet a journey that continued to be so worth it. Lifting my arms in total surrender to the God who’d never left my side even when darkness had tried to devour and lies had steered me off course. I looked out to the vastness of the ocean. The power of the waves. The beauty all around me. For a second life felt more settled than it ever had before. A stability had taken root and the foundation had cemented itself firm.
We had the trip of a lifetime, a vacation neither of us would ever forget. We found a rest we hadn’t realized we’d needed and re-connected deeper as a husband and wife than ever before. But as everyone knows so well, vacation vibes come to an end and as we flew home that Sunday evening in December just a few weeks before Christmas – we hit the ground running. Who knew life was about to get shaken up all over again!
December 29th, 2022. I felt sick to the pit of my stomach as I handed the pregnancy test to one of my best friends and started the agonizing 3-minute wait. It couldn’t be. It was impossible. Four long years ago we’d started trying for a baby. It was two years into our marriage, and we were ready to start a family. We wanted two kids, preferably a boy and a girl. It was January 2019, and I knew within a few months life would change forever… I was ready. I jumped on Amazon and bought a little baby onesie that said: “Our greatest adventure is about to begin.” I smiled when it arrived and wrapped it up, putting it away in the drawer. That would be Ryan’s gift the day I found out we were pregnant.
Life is never quite that simple. It’s not for me anyway. As one month turned into many months and eventually the months turned into years, the thought of having a family together became a far-fetched hope rather than a once closely held dream. What was wrong? Why can everyone else get pregnant? Why is there always something wrong with ME? Thoughts would plague my mind and lies would take me down. Staring wide-eyed at the infertility leaflets in the hospital, I never thought I’d be the one walking this road. Exploratory surgery revealed nothing, and hundreds of tests later we were still none the wiser. Time had stood still, yet age was creeping forward.
January 2022. Another fertility session. Another painful procedure. As I laid on the bed, I closed my eyes, body trembling. Hands gripping the edge of the bed. Each session transported me back. Years ago. The abuse was taking place, the men were surrounding my bed. I tried to stay grounded but with each session I could feel myself slipping further away. I couldn’t do it anymore. Life felt out of control. I no longer recognized who I was. I was living more in a state of trauma than I was living in real life. I was done. I had nothing left to give.
It’s one of the hardest conversations I’ve ever had. Trying to explain to your husband that you’re done trying and that something has shifted, and you no longer want this anymore. Watching the heartbreak on his face as his dreams shatter and life harshly rips you apart. For 3 long years we’d had this goal. It’s all we’d really focused on and without realizing, it had become our only intimacy. We’d never stopped long enough to see the real damage we’d been doing or the distance it had unintentionally created between us.
We walked into some of our darkest months. See, you take away the goal, and what’s really left? I’m not a big believer that everything happens for a reason. But I’m a huge believer that everything that happens to us is used for good. As we started re-dreaming, re-connecting, and re-creating a new life for us, we found a depth between us that we hadn’t experienced before. Values were re-ordered and beliefs re-prioritized. A new foundation was built. One that was stronger than ever before. And one that wouldn’t crumble very easily.
December 29th, 2022. The three minutes were over and as I looked all I saw were two fat red lines. I had no words as I stared at the test. A stick I’d peed on so many times. The lines I had wished into existence every day for three years. 9 months ago, my physical therapist had told me I couldn’t get pregnant the way my pelvis was situated. It had been missed by every doctor and gone unnoticed on every test. My body could never have gotten pregnant. Yet here I was. Four years on. Pregnant.
There are not many times in life where you experience almost every emotion imaginable all at the same time. I went from anger to devastation – I gave up on this dream. I had since built a different life and there was no longer space or room left in it for a baby. Overwhelmed followed by complete shock. I needed an entire day to process the news before I shared it with Ryan the following morning. But when I surprised him with the baby onesie, I had bought exactly four years earlier, and saw my husband’s reaction and every drop of emotion flood out of him, all I could feel was an overwhelming gratefulness and excitement. For the hope which had been lost and the dream which had been buried had been gifted to us after all and who was I to be ungrateful for this unbelievable miracle.
I take myself back to the ship. Standing on the top deck watching the sunrise as the ocean breeze moves so freely through my hair and over my face. You can’t predict life. Ever. One moment it might feel settled, the next you’re being rushed into surgery and having the very miracle you waited four years for scraped out of your insides.
The pregnancy lasted almost 10 weeks before my miscarriage started. Doctors identified something was wrong and sent me home expecting the miscarriage to begin within a few days and so I waited for the unknown to start. It’s hard to explain the confusion I have felt surrounding this pregnancy. How do you mourn something you didn’t think you wanted just a few months prior but then feel devasted when it’s taken away?
The cramping started but very quickly we knew something wasn’t right. As we spent the week in and out of hospital, and I experienced pain like I have never experienced before, I eventually got rushed into surgery on Tuesday morning Feb 7th 2023, and they spent 3 hours scraping everything out of me.
As I sit on the couch and stare out the window sore and swollen, I feel sad, yet I also feel unbelievably thankful. I experienced something I never thought I would ever get the privilege of experiencing. My body fell pregnant and the impossible happened. But more than that… a buried dream, a hope thrown away – was handed back to us. A little flame reignited. The last two weeks have been anything but easy. You question yourself, wonder what you did wrong, you question God and ask why this had to happen. But as the messages of support come flooding in, I am blown away by the amount of woman who have walked this path. Who have experienced a miscarriage and mourned the loss of a dream which never came into existence. It’s something not spoken about much, shared only within the intimacy of another walking the same hard road.
To some questions we might never know the answer. But I know that the pain I experienced these last few weeks, physically and emotionally, will be used for good. In my own life, in my husband’s life and in the lives of others. This life is never settled. It’s not even very stable. But for the first time I have been able to stand on a foundation which didn’t rock. It was cemented firm. “Though the rain comes in torrents and the floodwaters rise and the winds beat against that house, it won’t collapse because it is built on bedrock.”
It’s 5am. The world is quiet. Outside is dark. It’s by far my favorite time of day. For a long time I wrestled with silence, fought against the stillness. In all honestly, I sometimes still do. But each morning at 5am when I climb out of bed, slide into my slippers, put on a hoodie, make a coffee and sit in my safe little corner… I feel at peace. Some days it might be the only hour I feel it, but it’s something. And for now that’s ok.
I sit for a moment, watching my coffee brew. It’s funny how habits can feel safe. A routine can keep you grounded. I think back to the last blog I wrote. February of 2021. It’s been 20 months. In some ways it feels like a moment, on the other hand it’s been a lifetime. So much has happened. So much has changed. Why did I stop writing? My coffee is ready and I pull it from the machine, add a splash of oat milk and retreat to the garage where my safe little corner awaits.
I stopped writing because life got tough. Like really tough. I half smile. Ironic really, even saying that. What part of life isn’t tough? I open my laptop and look at the words I’ve written. It’s hard to be real. It’s even harder to be vulnerable. Does it show weakness? The world we live in says so. Isn’t it so much easier to pretend everything is ok? To put a smile on your face, be positive, criticize those who complain and walk through each day masking the truth of our reality.
I’ve wanted to write. So many times I’ve opened a blank page and said to myself ‘let’s go’. Yet the minutes would pass and I’d just stare into space. No words would come. A once burning fire sizzled to nothing. Just the remnants of a dark smoke circled the ashes.
I look back at my laptop. If life is tough then why are we constantly striving for perfection? Why do we so desperately need everyone to believe we’ve got it all under control? When did vulnerability become a weakness and realness make us frail? I didn’t stop writing because life got tough. I stopped writing because overnight my finally put together life fell apart and I became scared to expose weakness and face judgement from a world which had an expectation I could no longer meet.
See I walked out of human trafficking. I survived. A lot of people know this about me. I’ve shared my story on platforms I never thought I’d stand on. I survived a life many people don’t. I walked into a freedom most never get to experience. I’m a walking miracle. My old life became a past tense and I’d found my new present. For multiple years everything was steady… until one day it wasn’t.
I pause… look around our converted garage. I’m thankful for my home. My space. It’s so easy to take things for granted. Always be looking at the next bigger thing. In a world which moves at a million miles an hour, many of us have forgotten how to be still, in the moment, content, just here. I take a deep breath. In this moment I’m so very grateful.
November 22nd 2020. My birthday, 23 months ago. My steady life had started showing cracks. I’d moved back from Germany a few months before, leaving my husband there, making the big decision to return to America to get back to a full-time job I’d left behind and loved and was desperate to get back to. Covid was in full swing and the isolation of living in Germany completely remote for a year had been ridiculously tough. So together we’d made the decision to live apart for almost 15 months as my husband finished his tour in Germany and I moved back to Virginia Beach.
You know sometimes everything about something can feel completely right until it completely doesn’t. No matter how much we tried to prepare ourselves to be apart for that long, nothing can ever really prepare you and so two years ago we walked into the hardest season of our marriage to date.
I woke up early on my birthday, alone in bed, in a room I was renting from a couple. The dogs slept soundly on their bed. I missed Ryan. It had only been a few months but it had already felt like a year. When you do life so closely with someone and suddenly you’re 4000 miles apart, it feels ‘off’. Like a piece of you is missing. It was dark outside but it was Sunday and Sunday’s were a work day and I had to be at the church early. I got dressed, fed the dogs, put on their leashes and walked outside into the neighborhood. As I walked past the million dollar homes on my 32nd birthday, I remember thanking God for being alive and for bringing me out of my previous life into a whole new one.
I cut across the street into the field which led to the wood trails behind the neighborhood and unclipped the dogs from their leashes so they could run free. I love watching my dogs run. These trails, so close to the house, were a blessing. It can be hard to find good dog walks in Virginia Beach! I made my way further into the woods, following my usual trail.
I drink my coffee and stare at my laptop as the screensaver mode kicks in. Beautiful scenery floats before me. I’ve always wondered where these places are and how you get to them. There have been many moments where I wish I could have transported myself to sit on top of that mountain, overlooking those lakes, or lie in that hammock inhaling that perfect ocean scent. So much peace. Tranquility.
I heard him whistle but I hadn’t seen him coming. It was rare to pass anyone on these trails at this time of morning. Especially on a Sunday. But there he was. It only took a second for the panic to rise in my chest, my heartbeat to amplify and a cold sweat to run down my back. I knew instantly he must have followed me and I hated myself. I’d been distracted, inattentive, my mind had been far away. Stupid girl. A hatred I hadn’t felt for myself in a long time charged back in with a vengeance. We’re not supposed to fear. Yet fear was all I felt.
I hold my coffee tight as I let a tear role down my cheek. I don’t know if I’ve let myself go there in 23 months. I don’t even know if I’ve really let myself cry. It went numb. For a year and a half all I felt was numb. There were feelings, there always are, but I couldn’t access them anymore. The deep loathing was readily available, disappointment in myself, my life and most of all God would override anything else. I spent the better part of 9 months thinking I’d cheated on my husband and he would never forgive me. In a second everything I’d worked for, all the progress I’d made, it came crashing down. Cracks turned into chasms and before I knew it I stood empty, distant, disconnected and immobilized in a life I no longer recognized.
All it takes is a moment. And life changes forever. I will never be the same person I had been minutes prior to this event taking place in my life. I’ve felt a lot of fear over the years. I’ve had many moments where I wasn’t sure if I’d be alive to see another day. In those woods on November 22nd 2020 I thought it would end. Rape followed by murder. Yet once again, I would live to see another day.
Despite having walked through years and years of abuse… this one moment in some ways had a bigger impact than all those other years put together.
I take another sip of my coffee. Swipe my laptop to reawaken it from its slumber. I continue typing, letting the words come readily and feeling the emotions easily. It’s taken a long time to get to this moment.
I walked home with the dogs once I was convinced he had left. I was dirty. Inside and out. All over again. My hands shook as I opened a note on my phone and wrote every detail I could remember down. There were no tears. It felt like everything inside of me had turned to stone. I walked into the shower, scrubbed my body, got dressed and left for work. I spoke to family and friends and my husband, all wishing me a happy birthday. On the outside I was Chi. On the inside I was numb.
I finish my coffee. A deep gratefulness envelops my heart. One that can only come by walking through the impossible. I’ve learned more this last year than I have in the last 30. I’ve found a faith deeper than I ever had before. I’d been living on a foundation which hadn’t been complete. Vital parts had been missing. Things I’d never fully understood and chosen to live without. For years I’d built up a false sense of security, living under a protection which was never real. I’d constructed an image for myself which fit perfectly with the world around me. Complete, untouchable and invincible. Most of it had been subconscious, but it was reality all the same. But the thing with flawed foundations is that they won’t stand the test of time. And eventually it crumbled. And I had to choose to re-build.
However as the rebuilding commenced, once again I found that doors started opening. Opportunities, work, friendships, connections and possibilities. What happened on my birthday almost took me out once and for all, yet today I’m realizing it’s become the very thing catapulting me into the biggest season of my life yet. I look back at my entire journey. Every hurt, every point where I didn’t think I could keep going, the darkest moments and the most desperate times. They have formed some of the deepest connections and laid the very foundation on which my feet now walk. God has used every single hour to define not only who He is but also what He’s capable of.
Has any of it been easy? So very far from it. Yet I’m not sure I would go back and change even a moment. I know many of you out there are struggling. Suicides are at an all time high. Today I want to encourage you. If you’re reading this. Keep going. Keep fighting. Seasons change. Days end. Even if it’s been the toughest time yet and it’s been relentlessly long, there will be an end. And one day you’ll look back and see that some of the hardest things in your life have actually become the greatest gifts, the most valuable lessons and your most significant worth.
I press save and close my laptop. I take a deep breath. This blog was a tough one to write. An even harder one to post. Despite the breakthroughs and the moving forwards, I’m still on a journey. It wasn’t an overnight fix. But each day I’m choosing to fight. Deciding to trust. And determined to overcome. And I know that each day I will continue to look back, smile and be forever thankful that I chose to rebuild.
I did an interview last week. On my life, sex trafficking, the links between pornography and the trafficking industry, how uneducated our world is on it especially men and what more needs to be done to tackle this monumental issue. I went through a stage where I was regularly doing interviews, sharing my story and writing about it. But as I started talking I realized how long it had been since I last spoke about any of it. I finished the interview and sat in my little office at work staring at the wall. Quite literally. Something strange always happens when I speak or write about my life in any capacity. It’s the easiest and most natural thing to do in the moment, BUT as soon as I’m finished I move into this hollow, dark and desolate place. Transported back into memories I’ve spent the last decade avoiding and coming face to face with the darkness I spent so long trying to overcome. As I sit at my desk I look around at all the photo’s on the wall. The many memories which have been made since that time. Years of normal have most definitely replaced the abnormal and yet there’s always this piece which sits non-returnable.
I know in this moment I need to pick up the phone and call my people. I know in this moment I sit in a choice, ever so slightly pushing the thin weak boundary between reality and moving into a state of incapacity. Feelings of fear, doubt, rejection and dread knock on the door, am I willing to let them in? Prepared for the consequences if I do? My phone rings multiple times but it’s distant and suddenly it becomes a whole lot harder to muster up any energy or control to keep myself grounded. My phone keeps ringing – background noise. I’m no longer avoiding, merely circumventing. I stare hard. The photo’s are keeping me grounded, I look at each one remembering exactly what I felt in that moment and the feelings of happiness surrounding them.
My smile fades as I sober back into reality. The darkness continues to grapple for control. I wonder why this is so hard? I question why it is sometimes easier to give into the tough than go into battle for the right? Without any restraint I could allow myself in this moment to sit with the darkness. To be engulfed with heaviness. To be overtaken by the past. It’s easy. It requires no effort. It glides in, settles down and silently controls. To fight for the light on the other hand is the complete opposite. It’s painful, a struggle. It means using every ounce of fight I have left in me. And even once I grab hold of it, it doesn’t seamlessly settle. No, it’s like battling a bed sheet that’s too small to cover the mattress. Tie one side down and you have to pounce on the other before it retreats back into a heap of uselessness. Why is that? It’s so much harder to physically make a place dark than make it light. Light seeps in through the gaps, overtakes the darkness at every cost. It would win hands down each time. Yet take out the physical and the darkness wins over and over again. We have to battle so much harder for the light to enter and remain than for the darkness to penetrate and stay.
For a moment I’m Switzerland. Neutral. Unengaged. I don’t allow the darkness or the light in. I think back through some of the questions. My answers. How did you end up in that world and how easy was it to fall into it? It was too easy. Scarily easy. Took no effort whatsoever from my part. Be broken enough, try hard enough to find your identity in the wrong place and life has your back. Sets you up. Completely. But how did I end up there? How does anyone end up anywhere? Choices? Yes. Decisions? A series of events, as one unfolds the next is prepared.
I stare at my computer. The couch. A little basketball hoop is mounted on the wall. A blanket drapes and the little fridge buzzes. Each item is attached with a memory. A shopping trip, an idea, a game, reminiscence. I smile. Each layer creates a level and suddenly I’m surrounded by everything. Good, bad, ugly. Tough and worth. I’m hit by a complete moment of realization of how incredibly crazy it all is. I’m at work. Sat in my office in Virginia Beach in America. A country that less than 5 years ago I’d never even visited. My husband is deployed, living in a different country 4000 miles away. Each level is comprised of so many layers. It makes us who we are. Determines how we think. Act. Respond. React. My interview took me back into a level that has more layers than most of the rest of my life put together. As I navigate through some of those layers naturally emotions, thoughts and memories emerge. It happens for all of us in some way.
The decision still stares me in the face. Dark or light? Is it really a choice or is it merely a matter of time until one engulfs the other. I decide it’s definitely a choice. I’ve given in to darkness too many times to know the places I end up in aren’t good ones. Far from it. And even though it may seem easier in the moment, climbing back up out of those pits will always be more grueling than fighting for the light to prevail in this moment. I feel tired. Exhausted. It’s been a tough few months in more ways than one. But that just seems to be life. It’s never really been easy. There’s been incredible moments. Highs and mountaintops. But no one reaches those without first encountering the lows and stumbling through the valleys. It continues to be a journey. A journey of layers and levels, choices and decisions. There’s moments we get it right and more moments where we don’t. Life is unpredictable, unexpected and a lot of the time unanticipated.
The decision is so simple. Definitely not easy but certainly simple. Yet there’s something about the darkness which pulls. It’s not the ease of it, it goes deeper than that. For a moment I focus on my past. What were some of the toughest things you experienced? That was a hard question to answer. The list is too extensive, the years too long. Some of the inhumane acts I was involved in too much to put into words, the fear of rejection and judgement ring harshly if they were ever spoken out loud. I decide to stick with the safe answers. I explain the warehouses, the large studios with camera’s and lights, being tied up and gang raped, all filmed. Being held down beforehand and forcibly injected with heroine so that I would lose all control of my body and they could do anything and everything that needed to be done to it. I talked about it in the interview but no feelings were attached. Now I’m there. I can feel. It hurts but more than that is anger. At myself, who I am. My weakness. This is why the darkness pulls. Because it’s so much easier to admit defeat than have to fight to be something more. It’s simpler to sit in nonexistence than try to be somebody on a daily basis. It’s easier to believe the lies than swallow the truth. To step away from darkness means facing into the light. And light reveals. It reveals the layers and the levels. It indicates the work still needed, the healing that hasn’t yet taken place and the shortcomings we’re still giving into.
Light reveals and darkness conceals. In a world full of hurt and pain, abuse and torment why wouldn’t we want to conceal? It seems so much easier. And maybe sometimes for a moment it is. But that’s all it is. A moment. While it might conceal, it doesn’t deal. And it’s not until we start dealing with it that the pain starts to fade and the hurt begins to dim.
I pick up my phone and call my people. I walk out of the office and surround myself with friends. The heaviness begins to evaporate, the darkness slowly retreating from its position of power and threat. The light begins to seep in through the cracks. I’m not fixed. Far from it. But with each choice to turn my back on darkness a layer is formed, cemented in and I know one day I will look back and see new levels take me places I never thought I’d get to. It’s never easy. I don’t think it ever will be. But I’d like to believe it’s worth it.
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