Riding the subway with my infant son nestled in a baby carrier was a routine I took for granted. However, that day was different. An exuberant stranger turned toward us, her face lighting up the dim interior with a warmth that vitality can only conjure. “How old is your baby?” she inquired with genuine interest. When I stated he was nine months, her excitement was palpable as she exclaimed, “Isn’t this just the best age?” I smiled back, though a sliver of anxiety gripped my heart, involuntarily questioning whether this stage might truly be the pinnacle of his development.
In those early months, my son was lovable in his playfulness but also a ball of contradictions. He had a penchant for crying at all hours, throwing our schedules into disarray. Tongue-tied and moody, his peak moments of energy seemed to coincide with the witching hour, turning the prospect of nighttime into a challenge rather than a reprieve. As my son approached his first birthday, the joyous chubby-cheeked bundle turned into a complex web of emotional expressions, often leading to distressing breath-holding episodes.
Navigating parenthood during this period was a whirlwind of dread and helplessness. I vividly recall the moment when my son’s silent cry escalated to something unimaginable. One day, after exiting the subway, I found myself watching in horror as paramedics loaded him into an ambulance, his tiny body limp and unresponsive—a shocking jolt of fear that remains etched in my memory. The terror of witnessing one’s child undergoing such severe episodes reverberated through my being, intensifying my desire to shield him from harm. On that fateful ride to the hospital, I experienced the chaos of parental panic firsthand—a pinprick could either spell hope or uncertainty, and my son’s eventual waking felt both ecstatic and daunting.
Despite the promising hint of normalcy with his third birthday on the horizon, which coincidentally heralded the end of these episodes, an unsettling heaviness lingered within. The emotional wreckage of those sleepless nights weighed heavily on my heart. Wearily, my husband and I resolved to expand our family, but reality proved to be a harsh teacher. Two years later, equipped with medical evaluations and laden with the diagnosis of unexplained secondary infertility, we were left in confusion and despair.
The uphill struggle of fertility extended beyond mere attempts at conception. Delving into various remedies from yoga to ancient practices such as acupuncture, I tried to embrace every potential avenue for hope. The absurd pursuit of a V-steam, involving squatting over steamy water while my shoulders were kneaded, showcased my desperation for relief and renewal. I was spiraling, caught in a cycle of hopefulness and despair.
Finally, an unexpected trip delivered the joyful news of a pregnancy, flooding me with elation. Yet, like a mirage, this joy evaporated as alarming symptoms suggested impending loss. The heartache of attending a family event only to discover that everyone already knew my secret, coupled with the following ultrasound revealing the absence of a heartbeat, initiated a deep, paralyzing grief. My body became a vessel of confusion and anguish; the yearning for what could have been wracked my mind.
As we resumed our journey toward conception, another pregnancy materialized, only to dissipate anew. Each time, the cyclical nature of loss instilled in me an awareness that something more profound was necessary for healing.
When a friend discussed the retreat called the “Wild Woman Fest,” it ignited a flicker of curiosity within me. The thought of camping amidst like-minded women, exploring the wilderness, resonated deeply. I arrived, tent-pitching skills non-existent, yet open to whatever unfolded. That experience was transformative, allowing me to shed the weight of parenting fears and the strife that accompanied my fertility struggles. In a space where vulnerability thrived, I danced my way into liberation, wept openly over lost dreams, and found connection through collective experiences.
Choosing my “goddess card” at the retreat was symbolic. Goddess Maeve, the representative of fertility, beckoned me towards acceptance of my cyclical nature. Her message urged me to foster peace with the complexities of womanhood and motherhood. As I departed, I felt a profound shift within myself, one where I was finally at peace with the narrative unfolding before me.
Upon returning home, nature mirrored this personal renaissance as vibrant purple flowers sprang forth around my house. The haunting memories of loss began to fade, making room for the joyous existence of my twin daughters, a fulfillment of my heart’s whisper fostering harmony. This journey through motherhood—none linear, rife with pain and joy—has shaped me into a more resilient version of myself, ready to embrace the chaotic beauty of life.