The weight of motherhood, the weight of loss, is too heavy to carry on our own.
No one tells you how difficult the baptism into motherhood can be. How heart wrenching, painful and exhausting it can be.
Our first pregnancy was completely "normal", whatever normal means. We had no health issues, no fears of loss, nothing. But it was covered in shame.
We labelled ourselves as "Christians", followers of Jesus, and we got pregnant before we were married. I hid my growing belly the entire pregnancy. The weight of shame was too heavy to bear. I can't even count the number of times I wailed out in shame, begging God to take it all away; silently hoping I would miscarry.
Those months hardened me. I distanced myself, believing I was no longer good enough, no longer worthy. And then motherhood hit me like a rock.
I was baptized into motherhood, and had no idea who I was anymore. I felt like I was breaking up with myself, and yet desperately clinging to the pre-pregnancy version of me. I had isolated myself, lost my village, and I was walking around aimlessly alone.
I thought getting pregnant again as a married woman would redeem my first pregnancy experience. See look at me, I've conceived in wed-lock. As if my sex life is anybody's business.
We planned it all out. Wanting our kids close in age, and far enough along that I would qualify for another mat-leave. I went back to work with a growing belly, and the glow of a happily married pregnant woman.
It was the perfect plan, until it wasn't.
Weeks or months prior, I had a dream we were having a boy. In the dream I was told our son's name was Josiah, which means God has healed. This would be my redemption baby.
The day we found out, my co-workers placed bets on whether our little bean had a hotdog or a bun. I was banking on the hotdog, because you know "God had spoke to me."
My husband was half-way around the world, preaching the name of Jesus, when I heard the words "there is no heartbeat." I can still hear my cries echoing off the hospital walls.
My rough baptism into motherhood made me think I had lost my village. But in my time of deep sorrow, as I birthed our second born son too small for words, I realized they were never lost to begin with. They were still there, and you are still here, and my village has grown.
We all need each other. I'm learning more and more that the weight of it all is too heavy to carry on our own.