Rachel Lewis's Blog

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When you’ve suffered a loss — good holiday grief support can be the difference between barely surviving the season — and finding meaningful moments of healing and remembrance. But good holiday grief support is not a given.

If you can resonate with any of the following signs, there’s a good chance you would benefit from some better, more intentional holiday grief support.

Do you need better holiday grief support? Here are 6 signs that say, Yes, you do.

1. A sense of dread creeps up every time you think of this upcoming season.

For many, the idea of the holidays brings a lot of mixed emotions: looking forward to fun traditions, anticipating decorating their homes with all the festive things from Homegoods, and playing Christmas music the moment it’s 12:01 am on Black Friday. Mixed in with all the anticipation can be anxiety around all the financial commitments, decision fatigue with all the people to buy for and plans to make, and low-level exhaustion from all the extra demands the holidays create.

However, as each day crawls closer to Thanksgiving and Christmas, your anxiety about facing the holidays without your loved one only increases. You only wish there were a way to fast forward to January 2.

2. You are missing a loved one but don’t know how to include them this year.

Holidays make a loss so stark. Even if everyone else appears determined to move on — you see the person who is missing everywhere: The name missing from your shopping list. The holiday card addressed to one-too-few people. The incomplete family photos. The empty chair at Thanksgiving. The stockings that should be hanging by the Christmas tree.

All the should-have-beens and would-have-beens are inescapable.

 

RELATED: 8 Ways You Can Honor Your Grief While Celebrating the Holidays

 

And yet, even with all the reminders, you are still unsure just how to include your loved one in your holiday season. Do you set a chair for them anyway? Light a candle? Speak about them to others? Or are you supposed to hold it all in (unless it’s to your therapist, naturally.) If the idea of trying to include them this year feels a little dizzying, you may want some personalized support helping you figure out how you can continue including your loved one in your memories, even if you can’t make any more memories with them again.

3. Nothing feels comforting about your usual traditions.

Holiday traditions provide structure, predictability, and opportunity for anticipation. And . . . in theory anyway . . . these traditions should bring you some comfort. But what happens when suddenly, your usual traditions feel anything *but* traditional without your loved one present? When the last thing you want is “Christmas as usual” because nothing feels usual about a holiday without your loved one?

Noticing that holiday rituals are falling short means it may be time to make some changes this year. Perhaps that means forgoing a tradition, modifying it, or starting a new one altogether in its place. Maybe it means brainstorming with someone else on ways you can switch up traditions to inject that little bit of comfort back into your holiday.

4. You would rather bury your head in the snow than navigate this much small talk.

Holidays often mean catching up with all the people you don’t normally see day-to-day. (Or at least, they did before a pandemic.) There’s the long-distance aunt who only flies in every few years. Your partner’s coworkers you chat with once a year at the work Christmas party. The cousins, crazy uncle, and great-grandparents all gathered together can make some interesting conversational dynamics. Then there are the people you’re used to seeing, such as your mom’s group gathered around a secret Santa gift exchange. And then strangers — so many strangers. Huge crowds in the stores and at restaurants. All the cashiers, baristas, Uber drivers, Doordash drivers, Amazon delivery people — all wishing you a “merry Christmas.”

Does the thought of navigating this much small talk make you want to just bury your head in the snow? If so, it may be helpful for you to find someone who can hold space for you this holiday season. Someone you can completely vent on. Someone who won’t look at you sideways when you admit you snapped at someone because they told you to just be grateful. Someone who gets what it’s like to hold this much grief, under this much pressure, for this long.

5. Decision fatigue has turned you into a Scrooge.

You may normally be the jolliest of Santas during the holidays — but this year have you feeling a lot like Scrooge. And the chaos of all the demands on your time and attention has you mumbling Bah Humbug. You may be feeling massive decision fatigue from managing the following:

Deciding which side of the family you’ll spend the holidays with.Making travel plans.Making a budget — then trying to stick to it. (And then making a second budget, because of course.)Picking outfits for your holiday pictures.Choosing, buying, and hiding all the stocking stuffers — then, of course, stuffing the stockings.Searching all the online and in-person sales to find the best deals.Picking coordinating wrapping paper, ribbon, tissue paper, and bags — and ensuring you have all the time, tape, and scissors to wrap all those presents clandestine-style.Deciding which meal you’ll be hosting, which recipes you’ll be fixing, and which food preferences/allergies you’ll need to accommodate. Grocery shopping. Then fixing said food — on time — coordinated so that all the food is hot at the same time.Designing and sending out holiday cards (or blog updates — or just one massive social media post).Picking out the Christmas tree — and then decorating it. Then undecorating it — and getting rid of the Christmas tree.Ensuring the leftovers get eaten or properly frozen.Returning all the items your family members didn’t want, or you opted not to give.This (incomplete) list alone should tell all of us we need better holiday grief support.

Here’s why all this mental energy may be dragging you down: You have a finite reserve of energy per day. And your mental, physical, and emotional energy all come from the same reserve. So if you are using a ton of mental and emotional energy navigating all these decisions — and the resulting emotions — your physical energy is going to massively be lacking. The fatigue is not just in your head — it is very real.*

If you’re trying to navigate all of this when you are having difficulty with executive functioning due to your grief — you may benefit from brainstorming with someone else which of these plans should take your priority and what you should let go of or simplify.

6. You are pretty sure that you will be swallowed up whole in the busyness of the season.

When you were a kid, it probably felt like the holiday season was made for you. But as an adult, you may wonder if you were made for the holiday season. With so many extra expectations — financial strains — the pressure to feel merry and create a magical experience for others — well, it’s just a lot.

Then you add in grief — the constant wondering of where you belong — feeling like you have half of your heart in heaven with your loved one and the other half here on earth — the fear that your loved one will someone be overlooked this season — and you may just wonder if you and your needs will be swallowed up whole.

 

RELATED: 10 Reasons the Holidays Hurt When You’re Grieving

 

You don’t have to come in last this Thanksgiving and Christmas. Your grief does not have to take a backseat. Not only can you include your loved one in whatever way makes the most sense to you — you get to say, “I matter too.” Because you do.

If any of these signs resonate with you, you need holiday grief support this season.

Here are a few ideas of how to get better support this year:

Schedule weekly or twice monthly appointments with your therapist.Listen to podcasts that educate you on grief and offer validation.Read grief books that can affirm and validate what you are experiencing. (I recommend starting with my book, Unexpecting: Real Talk on Pregnancy Loss. Even if you have not lost a baby, the grief principles and coping techniques will be the same regardless of your loss.)Ask your family for help — be specific in how they can support you this season. (If they need a primer, I recommend sending them this free Bonus Chapter: How to Support a Loved One Through Baby Loss.)Join a support group like Brave Mamas.Stay in communication with a safe person you can vent to.I am excited to announce I am personally available to help provide holiday grief support.

This year, I am launching an 8-week personalized grief coaching program. I will meet with you one-on-one for 30 minutes a week via Zoom, provide “homework” that will offer practical tools to help you navigate your loss this season, and offer you unlimited voice and text messaging.

If you would like more information about grief coaching, your next step is to fill out this questionnaire here. You can include if you would like a complimentary, 15-minute session to go over any questions you may have.

No matter how you get holiday grief support this year, what matters most is that you are supported in a way that feels right to you.

If you need permission to say, “I get to do this holiday season in the most gentle, compassionate, and considerate way” — consider this your permission slip.

You matter.Your loved one matters.Your loss matters. Your grief matters. 

And all of these truths mean you deserve to have the absolute best holiday grief support this year. Wishing you as gentle of a season as possible.

Rachel

Tell me: What is one way you’ve incorporated your loved one into your holidays that has felt healing and helpful?

 

Click here for more information on Grief Coaching with Rachel, starting November 14, 2021.

 

 

 

 

 

What people are saying aboutUnexpecting: Real Talk on Pregnancy Loss

*Credit to Dr. Alan Pocinki for sharing this information.

The post Do you need better holiday grief support? Here are 6 signs that say YES, YOU DO appeared first on The Lewis Note.

Unexepecting Interview with Rachel Whalen of An Unexpected Family Outing

One of my favorite things these days is talking with others about my book — so I love that I got to spend my morning doing an Unexpecting interview. I was honored when Rachel Whalen, author of the popular blog and social media platform, “An Unexpected Family Outing,” reached out to chat about my book, Unexpecting: Real Talk on Pregnancy Loss.

Because Rachel W. is a loss writer and mother herself, she had such insightful questions on how to approach writing on this subject, as well as insights as an early reader of the book.

(And — fun fact: My phone/internet was acting up during the interview — so I couldn’t see ANYTHING on the screen. LOL. Isn’t technology so fun? Even still, we had such a great conversation.)

I’m so thankful for Rachel and so thankful for the opportunity to chat with her and her readers. And so thankful that technology, imperfect as it is, allows me to share my book with you.

I hope you enjoy this Unexpecting interview!

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Read more about the book launch here.

Order your book and get your preorder bonuses here. 

 

Unexpecting: Real Talk on Pregnancy Loss Order & Join Discussion Community at www.unexpectingbook.com

 

 

The post Unexpecting Interview with Rachel Whalen appeared first on The Lewis Note.

Balancing joy and grief in my Unexpecting book launch.   

There is a dream that has kept me motivated as I wrote and pursued publishing for my book, Unexpecting …

More specific than the dream of making a difference.

More vivid than the dream of helping someone else.

More concrete than the dream to pave the way for others coming behind.

It’s a dream of not just writing a book on pregnancy loss — but the dream of launching it.

Of standing in front of friends, family members, acquaintances, and professionals, and holding my book. Reading a section. And saying, “Thank you. Thanks for supporting me. Thank you for believing this book has a space in the world. Thank you for standing with bereaved parents.”

It’s this dream that propelled me when I received more than 20 individual rejections from publishers over the span of two years.

It’s the vision that kept me focused when I was weary and exhausted, and desperately needed sleep — but I had a deadline to meet.

It’s the focus I kept with the book was an abstract idea that had so little meat, nothing of substance to say, “I am real. I am here.”

And now — this dream is here.

This Tuesday, whether I feel fully ready or not, I will be standing in front of friends, acquaintances, professionals, family members, and readers. I will read the words I labored over. I will be candid about my process. I will offer the giveaways that have been so generously given to me. And I will help give this book to the pregnancy loss organization which gave to me when I was at my most vulnerable.

All of this scares me. Thrills me. Stresses me. Encourages me.

You may have noticed I’ve talked a lot about it on social media. I always feel somewhat weird sharing about it because, well, it seems weird to get excited about a book on loss. It seems counterintuitive to celebrate a book I wish no one needed and I wished I never needed to write. It seems selfish to say, I’m so proud of my diligence when another parent is fresh in the grief of their loss.

It is hard to hold in tension both the pride of finishing what I set out to do, excitement that the words I’ve longed to share are finally in print — and devastation that anyone, ever, should need my book.

 

I don’t want anyone to need it. And yet — I’m so very thankful that it’s here when they do.

I’m thankful I pushed past 23 rejections to the 1 yes.

I’m grateful I worked through a pandemic and a foster care reunification and I met my goal in turning in a manuscript.

I’m proud of not only my work, but that of the entire team, including my focus group, leadership team, and launch group, which has been a huge blessing to be a part of. Whatever gift it is to meet my goal pales to the gift of working with others to reach said goal.

So — when I invite you to attend my launch either in person or virtually, please know, this event is not a small event for me, even though it will be intimate. It’s a dream I held onto to help propel my book from dream to reality. It’s a graduation of sorts for me — a celebration of ten years of writing on my blog — and turning from contracted author to published author. It’s a hope realized — that when someone else walks through loss, they’ll have a hand to hold to know they are not alone.

So yes, I celebrate. And I also, mourn.

Just as I have all the years leading up to this moment.

Just as I will for all the years to come.

Thank you for taking this journey with me,

Rachel

 

 

You are invited to my book launch for Unexpecting!

Get early access to Unexpecting: Real Talk on Pregnancy Loss and have your book personally signed by me! In addition to my first official book reading, we’ll have a live author Q&A, exciting giveaways, swag bags, and more. Proceeds from raffle giveaways will benefit bereaved families through MEND (see below.)

Both in-person and virtual tickets are available. Today is the last day to purchase!

Tue, July 27, 2021
6:00 PM – 8:00 PM PDT

Hood Canal Vista Pavilion
4740 View Drive Northeast
Port Gamble, WA 98364

Raffle proceeds will benefit Mommies Enduring Neonatal Death (MEND). I’ll be raising funds to donate books to the NW Washington chapter of MEND, and as I’m able, to chapters across the country.

Thank you for your support for bereaved families — and thanks for joining me for this exciting evening.

Thank you to the Unexpecting book launch sponsors:

     

The post Unexpecting: Joy and Grief in the Book Launch appeared first on The Lewis Note.

I have been quiet.

That does not mean I do not care. It doesn’t mean I am complicit. It does not mean I will not use my voice. It does not mean I will stay quiet.

It does mean that I know my gut reaction is not always the right one.

If I’m going to share my thoughts, they need to be worthy of speaking. Worthy of reading, holding, and pondering. There is too much at stake to get this wrong.

It means that I am raw right now, and that speaking directly from my hurt, without taking the time to thoroughly explore my feelings and the truth behind them, rarely serves you.

I do not say any of this as a defense for my silence. Silencing my own voice in this moment is not wrong. It does not need a defense.

I am not speaking up — even though I care deeply about black lives, I am outraged at their suffering of the hands of others, and I hate racism. And … I am facing my own privilege and any areas where I may have been unintentionally racist, working through my own ignorance and naivety, and facing my own fears.

(And I am hating the fact that it took me being a parent to a child of color before I could empathize with black mothers who have faced this fear every day for their entire lives. I simultaneously want to share how very human and very worthy of living my child is … and then being disgusted and angered that I would need to appeal to basic human empathy to recognize the humanity in a person. No one should have to prove their humanity and inherent right to live.)

I am trying to absorb, listen, learn. When I speak, I want to get it right.

Do not mistake my silence on racism and violence against blacks as acceptance.

But I am trying to see things from sides other than my own. My perspective is heavily influenced by my own situation and my own experiences. I am trying to understand all the ways we as a society have failed those who have come before, those who are to come, and those who are here with us now.

I was recently publicly shamed on Facebook. No one knew I was the subject except the original poster and myself. I watched as strangers — people who felt empowered by my anonymity — make assumptions about my character. They openly mocked me. But it was ok, right, because I was nameless and because they were defending a friend.

What bothered me so much was not even the post itself — but rather the response. I was sickened by the freedom others felt to make fun of me and question my character based on little to no understanding of the situation or of me. I looked at their profiles and thought, “these people easily could have been my friends. Had we met any other way, I’m sure we would have gotten along.”

And then truth set in … I have also shamed others in the name of loyalty. I am guilty at times of rushing to judgment based on little to no information.

And also … how many of my friends of color feel this time and time and time again? Willfully, ignorantly, misunderstood and judged without the decency of someone trying to understand their point of view? How many have rushed to defend their own loyalties while blacks and other people of color paid the price for that loyalty?

The shame on social media right now is thick. It is both impenetrable and almost imperceptible if you aren’t paying attention to it. It is sneaky. It says, “If you do not think as I do, when I do, and how I do .. and if you don’t act like me or in ways I approve of, you are wrong. I will tell you you are wrong. And I know others will agree with me. And you will feel that shame.”

I am quiet because seeing shame, giving shame, and receiving shame is just too much. I have been shamed for staying quiet — I have been told it is my privilege and that I am complicit. We have been told to listen before we speak, and yet very few of my anti-racism white social media friends are comfortable with people taking the time to listen before we speak. On the other hand, I have watched others be massively shamed for speaking up. I question the value of all this shame slinging. Is it accomplishing the goal of elevating the perspective of people of color? Or is it a terrible distraction? Does it shift our focus from them to us?

We call it social media, but we have lost almost all sense of social decorum. We pretend that people do not have histories and experiences that inform their thinking. We forget nuance exists and make no space for anything other than black and white thinking. We stopped having a conversation. We just yell our points of view … then block the people who disagree, creating our own little world made of people who reflect back to us our own thinking.

Sometimes the fastest reaction is actually the wrong reaction. Not always. But sometimes. At least for me.

And that sometimes is what is keeping me quiet. These issues are too important for me to get wrong.

So yes, I am quiet. But please don’t mistake my silence for my acceptance.

To those who are black or are people of color … I am sorry for all of the ways I did not hear your voice before. I will join my voice with yours … please know I want to hear yours first. I stand against racism, against senseless, violent deaths, and I stand for full accountability for those involved. I stand against blatant and micro racism. I stand for you and with you. Please do not take my silence as anything less.

*** And for anyone who feels that having the right answer should not be complicated, I recommend you read this.

Photo credit: Joy Ann Muthu

The post My silence is not acceptance. appeared first on The Lewis Note.

Six weeks ago, Washington State isssued a shelter-at-home order as we deal with our generation’s first global pandemic. My children have been home 6 weeks now from school. My husband has been working from home for more than two months now.

I told myself that I would journal through this pandemic. I want to remember the day-to-day life as we now know it. The things that are good and the things that are not-so-good.

So here are my thoughts on the last 6 weeks of quarantine …

Distance learning is hard.

I think teachers are heroes. I have so much more appreciation for the jobs they do day in and day out.

AND I am overwhelmed.

The day we got word that school was out, I rearranged the playroom and created a workspace for each of them. They worked with my help for about 1.5-2 hours in the mornings and then we did “bins” until lunch. (Bins are just 3 plastic totes I rotated things in and out of, like sensory items, puzzles, crafts, and games.) Then it was a long recess outside. Quiet time for everyone. Then dinner and bedtime.

The first week was a little scary for me, but we found our groove. And the schedule actually worked. I breathed a sigh of relief … I could do this whole stay-at-home parenting/schooling thing.

By the time I felt good about our routine, it became clear that we were in this for the long-haul.

Also by this time, teachers had a bit more time to figure out what distance learning could look like.

I will not pretend for a second that any of this has been easy on teachers. But it is also not easy for us.

Two of the biggest changes has been a significant increase in time spent on a screen (which means less interaction with me, and more of me just juggling devices and video cameras.) And that Zoom calls dictate our day. I now feel at the whim of three teachers who understandably cannot coordinate their schedules with my other kids’ schedules. I cannot just do school like we did before, and that makes me sad.

It seems counterintuitive, but the packets my kids were initially sent home with worked better than all the online work they are expected to do now. I can’t do bins anymore, my kids are no longer available at the same time thanks to Zoom calls ranging from morning to early afternoon.

Then there are the one million apps I need to navigate.

Here’s what I hear when a teacher emails me their daily update:

“I sent you a Dojo with all the instructions. But basically, go to Google classroom, check out my video. If you can’t find it there, go to your email. Then go over to Seesaw. Sit with your child who has poor fine motor skills and help them with the mouse through every single part of this. Yes, this would take your child 5 min on a real worksheet. Yes, it will take him 20 min online. Don’t worry, I posted 6, but do what you can. Then give your kid a break, but not too long of a break. Get to I-ready. Do 20 min math, 20 min reading. At least. But they can do more. In fact, let them do as much as they want. But make sure they get outside time today, too. Then they can do starfall, too, if they want more work to do. Or they can do typing club. Make sure they are reading. Have them keep a journal. Have them send me a video each day telling me how they are — I miss them! And can they plant something? Make sure they go outside! Oh, and here is the zoom information for today’s call …”

I wrote the above slightly in jest … but also, it’s still true. One set of teacher’s instructions is usually doable. It’s when you add together all three teachers that it’s overwhelming.

The part that at least has been really helpful is the grace of all my kids’ teachers when I cannot do it all. They miss my kids … my kids miss them. Heck, I miss them. I wish they could be doing their job at school where every one could thrive. None of this is ideal for anyone.

All the therapies moved online as well. We have two computers for my kids so I have to juggle who gets what device every day. (You can bet there are favorite devices. And you can rest assured that my children will argue about which one they get to use.)

Navigating their schooling is both a sprint and a marathon for me in executive functioning.

I long for the days of the bins. Where I could have all my kids together. We played games. We worked together. And I felt some, small semblance of control I’m my life in a world that feels like it’s spinning out of control.

So this is me saying, I have to change something. I called one of my kids’ teachers, the one that stressed me out the most. He was so accommodating and absolutely put my mind at ease. We are now doing what we can, when we can, and I refuse, absolutely refuse, to feel stressed about it anymore.

(I say that. But then I remember I’m supposed to gather materials for my daughter to do a science experiment with her class over Zoom today. And I still need to schedule a therapy session today for one child. And we also have court over Zoom today as well. So … maybe I am stressed.)

So … future generations who might read this … this is what distance learning looks like for us. I can only hope that school administrators will work with teachers to create a system of learning that works for everyone should this ever happen in the future.

There are a few more challenges we face:

Information is everywhere, and it’s hard to discern credible sources.

Especially on social media. All of us regular people (as in, people who are not epidemiologists) have opinions about the pandemic and then share those opinions vehemently on social media as if we are now the experts.

I’m incriminating myself here. In the beginning, I had such strong opinions, and it was hard not to post them. I mean, we all feel like we need to save something: vulnerable people, our healthcare system, essential workers, businesses, our rights, and our economy. All of these thing s are good things. But we can’t see eye-to-eye right now.

We are like the people who who’ve read a book and think we’re smarter than the people who wrote that book.

Everyone is now an expert. And scrolling through my feed is just about impossible. Lines are drawn. Shame abounds. And conspiracy theories take root and thrive. People have taken to unfollowing people they love, even family, because the political opinions are so controversial right now. It’s all just too much.

To cope, I’ve pulled back from the conversations. I occasionally read my daily update from the New York Times. Scrolling by pretty much every post about the virus helps. If I do read something, I try to make sure as best as I can that the source is credible. And I ignore the voice of everyone and everything else. I don’t have the emotional reserves to care as vehemently as I did in the beginning.

Now, I’m sort of laying low. I keep my head down and focus on the next immediate need of my family. The days, weeks, and months are both flying by and dragging on. At the end of the day, Ryan and I sit stunned on the couch. Exhausted. Trying not to stress eat ice cream. Then we binge-watch shows that depict a normal normal … not our new normal.

Every day is a sprint AND a marathon.

Besides exhaustion, here are some other struggles I feel …

I feel like a liability no matter what I do during this pandemic.

Right now, the emphasis is on saving as many people as we can (as it should be). And in the process, the rest of us feel a burden whenever we need something for our own survival.

Every choice carries the weight it didn’t use to. When to go to the grocery store, we have to consider when we should go, how long we should stay, where we should stand in line, if we will get in trouble if we don’t have a mask, which items we can buy, and which items we have to limit. I want to walk through the aisles just a tad slower because it’s my one break from my kids. I want to walk the aisles of Costco and enjoy being in the presence of other people, even if they are strangers 6-feet away. Even that brings shame. According to an article that pops up on my feed, essential workers like those in the grocery store are not putting themselves at risk so we can take our time. Shame on me for putting someone at greater risk. Shame. So much shame.

I took my toddler to urgent care recently for an accident involving her pinky. Both the doctor and I thought it might be broken. It turned out to be a sprain. The entire time I was there I felt like I was breaking the code of good motherhood and good citizenship. I should not have to feel guilty for taking my child in if she appears to have significantly damaged a finger. And yet, mom-shame kept yelling in my ear:

“So …. let me get this straight … you risked death from Covid just because she sprained a finger?

These are the kinds of dilemmas we face.

This is the weight we carry every day with every decision.

I don’t ever want to hear the word “unprecedented” again, especially if it’s paired with “times.’

My friend Jeannette posted a hilarious thread of words we never want to hear again. Among them: essential, critical, pandemic, Covid or coronavirus, social-distancing, 6-feet, flatten the curve, shelter in place … These are words we hear every day, everywhere. It’s hard not to feel indoctrinated, even if it’s all true.

Can I just say I wish commercials could go back to normal?

I remember the first night our kids were home and shelter-in-place became official. The commercials felt weird. People were depicted in everyday scenes, like on crowded airplanes or in offices — all of the things we now associate with risk of death. It was was tangible reminder that our social norms were gone.

Companies got the hint that their commercials were no longer relatable to our everyday lives. Plus, the rules of media seem to have changed. If you want people to listen, talk about the coronavirus. Bonus points if you play inspirational music in the background. Triple bonus points if you share all the ways your company is giving back millions of dollars to those impacted by the virus. (Um, why not just give the money you spent on the commercial instead? Oh that’s right, you are still selling us your brand under the guise of generosity.)

Then there are the things I’m infinitely grateful for in the middle of a pandemic.

Teachers … for doing the very best they can to teach students they can’t share a space with.

Doctors, nurses, medical assistants and technicians, janitors, and the cleaning staff for putting themselves at risk again and again and again for our safety.

Everyone essential worker who is doing their best to keep our society afloat in the midst of a long-term pandemic.

The lunch ladies. They provide our kids with lunches day in and day out. This is a highlight of our day — hopping in the car for a 10-minute drive pick up a school lunch. It’s the one consistent time my children leave the confines of our property.

Family for continuing to check on us and pray for us.

Friends who message, call, and video chat. Game nights over Zoom. Friends who allow me to vent all my frustration and rejoice with me over wins. We are all in this together. Even if we can’t be together.

The times we can have fun. We’ve had to get creative on this one. Going for a walk is a new family activity. We have played more games in the last two months than I think we have in the last two years. Our kids are looking forward to things like camping in the backyard and roasting s’mores in our fireplace. We fix brunch together every Sunday. The kids fix Italian sodas and Ryan and I get coffee (sometimes spiked with real Irish cream.) We still do a family popcorn movie night. We are finding new traditions, and doing what we can to make the best of our extended time with our kids.

I’m thankful we moved before the pandemic hit. That we have a backyard with a play structure. That I can send my kids outside for a few hours at time and they are entertained.

I am grateful that we all seem more friendly. It’s normal now to wave to people you see walking when you’re driving by. Neighbors talk to me when we pull up our trashcans at the same time on garbage day. We take time for each other when we can. We smile with our eyes since our faces are covered by masks.

If I could give any advice to future generations from what I’ve learned from this pandemic, it would be: Have at least one month’s supply of toilet paper at all times. Avoid having a pandemic during an election year at all costs.Listen to the experts, not the supposed-experts. Admittedly, sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference.Appreciate the normal things. You know, those things you take for granted every day. They may not be things that bring you joy — just things that make your life easier or go smoother. Things that keep you healthy and sane. Name those things. And appreciate them. Because you never know when it will change.Pay your teachers more.Please make healthcare make more sense. The health of an entire nation rests on people getting the care they need and deserve. People should not have to choose between living and bankruptcy. Please, future people, put your heads together and figure this one out if we haven’t done it by the time you read this.Love your people well. Take care of your relationships — you may have to quarantine with them. If you are not in a healthy relationship, reach out for help. There may come a time that will make that significantly harder than it already is. Don’t wait. Hold things a little looser. When a global crisis hits, you learn to hold things not quite so tight. Schedules, routines, expectations, goals — things need to flex and adjust. You’ll learn to let go.You will be affected by the 2020 pandemic, even if you didn’t live through it. Your parents did. Or grandparents. And I guarantee, it has left a lasting mark on us all. We have all changed. And you will feel that change, for better or for worse.Don’t be naive like so many of us have been. Life seemed pretty good, pretty predictable (minus the current political situation). It’s crazy how quickly things change. Maybe it won’t be a pandemic, maybe it will be something else. I don’t want you to be hypervigilant or fearful. Just prepared. (Here’s a resource to help us do just that.)Care about the one. One day, you’ll see astronomical numbers rise, numbers that don’t even make sense. Focus on the one. If you see that 10,000 people died that day — think about the one person who tipped it from 9,999 to 10,000. Focusing on the one helps you to remember that these are people, not numbers. Mourn the one so you can mourn the thousands.Oh. And make a smart plan for distance learning. (And if I can … figure out a way to keep classes safe from shootings. The one nice thing about his pandemic is that fewer kids are dying because America is not having our normal onslaught of school shootings. Yes, this is a thing in 2020. I hope it is not a thing for you.)

So … this is where life finds us on May 1, 2020, in the middle of the pandemic.

What about you? Which struggles are the hardest? What joys are you discovering? And how do you take care of yourself to stay sane through it all?

The post My day-to-day life in the middle of a pandemic. appeared first on The Lewis Note.

I miss blogging.

This of course might sound strange. And admittedly, it does to me, too. I spent years blogging, and while I loved it — I also longed for something more.

I watched as others signed contracts and launched books, and there was that quiet discontent because writing that book was always a someday and not a today. It’s like the oh-so-original analogy of being last to be picked for a team.

I knew (ok, hoped) I would be the one writing that book. One day. Me — a real author.

That day is here. The book is (ever-too-slowly) being written.

But the feeling of competition? The jealousy? The discontent? All the same. That feeling of “making it” after getting my contract? Lasted less than 48 hours.

For anyone who is a fellow writer, this may be a surprise. It sure surprised me, too. To realize I achieved the very thing I set out to do — only to deeply miss the art of blogging (on my own space.)

Not that I am undermining the value in this book I’m writing. I absolutely think it sill be worth it. And in time, with lots of work, I think it will be really good. (At least that’s the goal.)

Perhaps I just didn’t understand the value of of feeling feel so free to voice my thoughts as a blogger. Maybe I just miss my thoughts unfettered.

There is a hindrance now, an expectation. And maybe no one has placed it on me other than … me.

I used to feel that just coming here and being honest and being transparent in my fears, flaws and failures was enough. That somehow, if I was honest about hurting, and you were hurting, we could just hurt together. And that would be enough.

But now I feel I must offer solutions, not just words describing a problem. I must inspire hope, or faith, or something.

Being honest stopped being enough.

And that pressure to produce hinders my voice.

Vulnerability, once my strength to a fault, now feels like a weakness. I am terrified of telling collective-you of what my day-to-day looks like. What goes on in my heart. My fears, my hopes, my failures.

As my family evolves and morphs, I find myself fiercely protective. As my parenting falls under intense scrutiny as a foster parent, I don’t want any more eyes on me. Not that I have reason to hide. Only that I am so incredibly sensitive to any feedback that I’m doing this wrong.

As my faith evolves, as it should, I fear the pushback.

Jamie Wright, author of “The Very Worst Missionary,” writes that acknowledging the wrong in your beliefs, even while being grateful for the journey, is is like taking a jackhammer to your childhood home. (Or something like that — clearly not a direct quote.)

I have felt that so keenly. Fresh eyes and new perspectives daily challenge who I was, what I believed, and where I stand now. And while it feels right, it also feels so very wrong. As though to be any person than the one I always have been is a huge betrayal to all I valued in myself growing up.

Admittedly where I stand now feels like shifting sand … it’s not that there isn’t a foundation down there, somewhere.

But rather that the foundation has been covered by sort-of-truths and almost-truths and untruths I never thought to challenge until now. As I’m challenging them, they shift and some give way, and I find myself searching for balance and stability.

And nothing about any of this feels safe.

In the middle of it all is my own insecurity. The one I’m afraid to admit because the last thing I want is for you to feel some sort of obligation to assure me that my words matter and I should still write. (Even saying, “hey, sometimes I’m insecure” sounds so dang … I don’t know … needy?)

Of course, I hope you find my words helpful. Of course, I want to write and make a difference. Of course, I want to be all literary, and you to find me brilliant. (Of course, I admit that my “wanting” and my “deserving” of these things are not at all the same.)

And yet, like anyone else who has had to ever promote their own work, I find myself wondering … What message do I truly have to share, right now, that is worth you reading? Are my words truly that important?

I ask myself this every day. As I suppose, I should, since I call myself a communicator.

Every day I shift through the fodder of my daily thoughts, my experiences, my education, my relationships, my faith, and wonder, “What here is worth sharing? What will make a difference to that person on the other side of the screen?”

Sometimes I get it right. Other times, so wrong. I over or under share. I share something no one can relate to. I share a solution that only seemed to work for me. I trigger a grieving person, or seem overly pessimistic to a thriving person.

In my own insecurity, in my own personality that demands perfection and performance, this fear of getting it wrong makes me reject the very thing that helped give me purpose, give me community, give me introspection and understanding … this blog.

My lifeline.

But if I cannot be me, make mistakes, get it wrong, and occasionally tell you things like, “I’m a woman who values confidence yet struggles with insecurity” … even though those very words make me cringe …

If I cannot be me here? The very place I once poured out my heart and soul?

If I cannot be me, then blogging would be so very hard, and difficult, and everything I don’t like about writing.

If I cannot be fully me than I just don’t see how I can blog.

But since I miss blogging … since my heart just keeps saying, “you need to open up again” … I know I need to start showing up, not as anything other than me.

So yes, I’m an author. And yes, I’m a writer.

But dang it … I’m a blogger, too. And that’s a title I’m just not willing to give up any time soon.

The post Why blogging is just so hard. (At least for me.) appeared first on The Lewis Note.

“Don’t blink,” they say. “You’ll miss it.”

Don’t blink … when the time with our foster son was drawing to a close.

Don’t blink … during my last pregnancy, one miraculous day to the next.

Don’t blink … when my newborn baby mewed in her tiny voice and grasped my finger with her tiny hands.

Don’t blink … when that tiny baby began crawling, then began walking, then talking, and turned one, two, and now, three.

Don’t blink … or I’ll miss my oldest in her last year of elementary school, a girl who has lost all little-kid-ness about her and is all preteen now.

Don’t blink … because I remember when my oldest was my middle’s age, and oh I love this age. Can my middle just stay here, too? Maybe forever?

Don’t blink … when they say the cutest things or do the orneriest things … I’m sure to miss it all.

I have spent years trying so hard not to blink, not to miss. To hold on to every stage while watching the upcoming stages approach like a freight train, helpless to get them to slow down.

Just slow down.

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Don’t blink

But I find myself blinking, no matter how often I tell myself not to.

On the days that are just so jam-packed busy, I barely feel like I’ve seen my kids at all.

The days that their not-so-lovely behavior ruled and all I want to do is to close my eyes, and yes, miss it.

Then there are the days where I held on longer, hugged more, told them I love them, spent that extra five minutes at bedtime with snuggles, napped with them instead of getting things done …

And despite of my every effort to hold onto the moment, time passed anyway.

How helpful is it, I wonder, to warn me that if life happens to go along, just as it always has and always will, I will miss it all?

A mother’s love is not powerful enough to slow time down.

A mother’s distraction (which is often necessary) is not strong enough to speed up time.

Time passes, and as long as life will give them the chance, babies grow. This truth remains no matter how much I care, how much I pay attention, how much I try to suspend my duties in favor of sentimentality.

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Steady, steady, steady on.

I do not like this truth, not one little bit.

There are seasons I want to pass quicker, and seasons I hoped would never pass. Seasons I loved so much I pried my eyes open, even when they were weary and exhausted and just needed a break, just so I could make sure I wouldn’t miss it.

But there is also this truth:

Time has passed … and I haven’t missed it.

I was there. My children were there.

I have tucked away photos, momentos and memories, all proof that we were in the moment. That we, in fact, did not miss it at all.

Will I long for those stages again? Yes. Every day.

Every day I wish I could live again the the very best memories of their childhood.

What I wouldn’t do to double my youngest’s time as a newborn. Or my oldest’s as a 5-year-old. Or my middle right where she is now. Or my son, so he was here and I wouldn’t have to say good-bye.

Oh yes, I long to love these sweet moments again and again.

But.

I have not missed them.

I may not like that time will always pass. I may wish that time slowed down. I may hate that children cannot stay children.

But I let go of the guilt that maybe I’m not trying hard enough, slowing down enough, or holding on enough.

I release the expectation that I alone can do what no mother has done before me and no mother after me.

Instead I join the ranks of women who are simply doing their best to stay present, stay attentive, and love their kids, right where they’re at.

I will blink when my eyes are weary. Because that is how God designed me to work.

And as a mother … I blink.

I rest when I need to. I close my eyes for a short time to my kids so I can take care of my needs. I don’t attend everything, I sometimes rush dinner or bedtime, and I take the space I need to focus on other parts of my life, other parts of my purpose.

So yes, I’ll blink.

But I did not miss it. I did not miss the memories that matter.

And neither have you.

PS. I understand that many mothers do not have the privilege of watching their children grow. If you are a mother missing your child on earth, join us for support at Brave Mamas.

Would you love to read more like this? Follow me on Facebook for more.

The post I can’t help but wonder … “Did I miss it? appeared first on The Lewis Note.

Mommy, can we get a new house?”

“Why,” I questioned back to my 4-year-old. “Don’t you like living here?”

“I want to live in a different house. One that has kids in it — you know — friends? Who live there all the time? I want to get rid of this house, and live in a house that has friends.”

Poor girl. She thought it was the house.

It wasn’t of course. It was my body that was failing to produce the siblings she didn’t have the words to ask for.

When we found out we were pregnant with my first, I was scared of being a mom, and more than a little intimidated by the ways my life was about to change. But I had this little moment, holding the positive test in my hands, in which I thought, “At least I know now that I’m not infertile.” But that was before we tried to have a second baby and suffered through an ectopic pregnancy and recurrent miscarriages. Was I infertile?

Turns out, I was. I had secondary infertility — a rarely discussed, rarely acknowledged condition in which a person can give birth at least once and then struggles to conceive or carry their next baby to viability.

Like many of my sisters struggling with secondary infertility, I had assumed that getting pregnant easily the first time meant I had captured the holy grail of family planning.

Having four kids, which was my original plan, would be a breeze. As I gestated my little girl, other friends were struggling with primary infertility — the inability to conceive or carry a pregnancy to viability before a successful birth.

In laymen’s terms — primary infertility usually means childlessness. Primary infertility is a beast — but that is not my story to tell.

Secondary infertility is. I was an infertile mom: a living walking breathing contradiction. Here are just a few things I felt on my journey to grow our family the second time around . . .

Heartbreak at the prospect of not providing a sibling for your child.

I grew up with three siblings. My sisters and I swapped clothes, did each other’s hair, and played together constantly. When my brother came along, the baby of the family, we doted on him as though he were a little prince. Through the remainder of our childhood, our relationships waxed and waned.

But as adults, we became best of friends. I cannot imagine a life without them in it. So it makes sense that I wanted the same for my daughter.

When we got pregnant with our second, we were eager to share our news with her. I loved it when she put her tiny hands on my still-flat belly and cooed, “She’s just so cute!” about the itty bitty little baby-bean I assumed was growing in my womb.  

I couldn’t wait to watch her attach to her sibling as my bump would grow and we would deliver. But that was not to be. My baby was ectopic, and all our dreams of our baby died when my tube ruptured. When we lost the baby, we had to have conversations with my daughter about why babies go to heaven, why mommy was so sad all the time and why she would not be a big sister — at least not yet.

When you have a child in your family and are struggling with infertility, you and your partner are not only dealing with your disappointment in how things are turning out. You have a child who is grieving your losses with you, experiences loneliness when they want that built-in-friend, and repeatedly asks you for a desire of their heart you are just unable to fulfill. It’s heart-wrenching.

Triggers, triggers, everywhere.

As a mom, a huge part of my identity and day-to-day existence was wrapped around the fact that I had procreated. And naturally, this meant I was always around other women who also had children or were pregnant. Playdates, school activities, parks, pediatrician offices, libraries, community events, Sunday school drop-offs, moms groups, kids’ birthday parties — all the places I went to be a good mom to my child were packed with triggers.

 Fellow mommy friends began having their second child and then their third while we went through five losses. In our case, adopting and fostering eventually settled the fear that my daughter would be an only child. But I have to admit — seeing another pregnant belly was always triggering for me.

Under pressure.

Oh, the societal pressure to reproduce again. As soon as you have created one cute babbling baby, grandmas, friends, the clerk at the grocery store all want to know when your little child is going to become a big brother or sister. As the years wear on, and your delightful child ages, the pressure mounts.

Some well-meaning folks will tell you that only children are spoiled, and your son or daughter needs a playmate to keep their character in check. Family members miss having a baby in the house and are looking to you to supply their baby fix.

Because you’ve already given birth, people assume that you are fertile and can easily reproduce again, and so they do not hold back on their comments on how they’d like to see your family grow.

Guilt topped with a healthy serving of shame.

If “just adopt” is the platitude given to couples struggling with primary infertility, then “just be grateful” is what secondary infertility moms hear. And trust us — WE. ARE. SO. FREAKING. GRATEFUL. Not being able to carry another child reminds us every single moment of how precious our child is.

We think of our sisters struggling to have their first and our heartaches, and we wonder why us? Why were we given this beautiful child to love and call our own? And we honestly love our kid so much, we’re ready to do it again. We’re prepared to love another child and be just as grateful for them as we are for our first. And when we express our remorse that we can’t have another child, we are told we are selfish for wanting more than one.

Which is, of course, ridiculous. Mothering is giving of yourself, not getting. And last I checked, fertile moms are not routinely told to “just be grateful” when they go to have their second, third, or fourth.

So please tell me, why is it that we are not allowed to be both grateful for our existing and longing for more children at the same time?

Platitudes still suck.

Couples with secondary infertility still hear all the usual platitudes women with primary infertility hear all the time. “Just relax.” “It will happen when it’s time.”  “This is God’s will.” “Have you tried . . . ?” (insert any of the following: handstands after sex, temping, Chinese herbs, acupuncture or IVF).

We’ve been told to adopt because that is so easy. One person tells us to “quit trying so hard,” and then someone else says, “maybe you’re not trying hard enough.” Everyone seems to have an opinion on whether we are healthy enough, spiritual enough, grateful enough, financially sound enough, strong enough, or resilient enough to deserve having a second child.

Oh, and speaking of secondary, moms who can only have one child are not second-place mothers. So please do not say how easy they have it as a mom to one. Life with one child is still as hard as it is rewarding. No one “gets off easy” by only having one. Multiple losses, infertility testing and treatments, and chronic disappointment are not easy.

Sure, we don’t have sibling fights to break up. Instead, there is a lonely child who is looking to us to meet their every need, including the need for a playmate. Tell me again how easy that is?

There’s little chance for a do-over.

My pregnancy with my oldest daughter was hard. But as a first-time mom who conceived easily, I took the pregnancy for granted. And then I had a traumatic birth that could have killed both my daughter and me. I left that pregnancy with PTSD and postpartum depression which robbed me of being truly present with my newborn daughter.

And you know what? I wanted a do-over. Now that I knew how much I loved being a mom, I wanted to get pregnant and relish in the miracle of it the way I didn’t with my daughter. I wanted a chance to redeem the act of giving birth and the moments of having a newborn.

Plus, mothering had taught me a few things through the years. I knew more of what I was doing at this mom-business, and I was ready for a second chance to parent again. But infertility threatened my dreams of second chances. It also threatened my ideas of family planning.

I had wanted my children to be born close in age, and I also would have loved to have raised a son as well as a daughter. With infertility, these hopes were simply wishful thinking.

It turns out: Secondary infertility isn’t secondary at all.

It is simply infertility. It is the two-week wait – then the two-week wait to try again. It is the pregnancy tests that go from positive to negative without a baby in the arms as a reward. It is the anxiety that claws at you, even after your miracle child is in your arms. It is the disease that changes you from the inside out. It is a female factor and male factor. It is spreading your legs for OBs and reproductive endocrinologists and ultrasound techs.

It is filling that medication, getting those shots, suffering those side effects. It is the traumatizing blow to your identity as a woman. It is financing and refinancing. It is keeping on through one more loss, one more treatment, one more cycle. It is saying “enough is enough,” and ending your journey after a heartbreaking loss.

It is the forfeiting of hopes and dreams. It is the intentional remaking of your self-worth. It is explaining to people for the millionth time why your family looks the way it does. It is crying on your husband’s shoulder as another year passes without the hope of your much-wanted child.

It is the heartbreak, the fear, the hopelessness, the depression. It is realizing that you’ll never be the same again.

It took my husband and me five years of trying and five losses to end our fertility journey with a second live baby in our arms. Since I was now in my mid-thirties and was unprepared to walk through recurrent loss again, we chose to take permanent measures to make sure we didn’t suffer anymore — even if we would have readily welcomed another baby to our family.

Even with the rainbow baby in our arms, infertility got the final word after all.

This post originally was published at Still Standing Magazine.

Photo by KaLisa Veer on Unsplash

If you are grieving the loss of a child, you are welcome to join us at Brave Mamas. We’d love to have you.

The post Secondary Infertility Isn’t Secondary appeared first on The Lewis Note.

For a mama facing a miscarriage:

Your baby is real.

Maybe you got to see your baby — maybe not. No matter if you saw a heartbeat or not — your baby was real.

Your loss counts. You don’t have to compare your experience to anyone else’s to know that your pain, your grief, your suffering — all completely valid.

You don’t have to stay silent. You don’t have to share.

You get to do what you need in this moment to get through.

Maybe that means raising a village of support. I did, I needed that. Maybe it means cocooning and holding all your feelings close. I’ve done that too. There is no wrong in which you choose … as long as it is right for you, right in this moment.

Whoever you do tell, you deserve support. Sometimes that will come how you need it. Sometimes it will come in words and actions that are not what you need. You can take someone’s poor attempt at support, as hurtful as it may be, and say “I choose to recognize that you are doing your best. I also will not hold on to the words you used which were so hurtful. I release those words, and their emotional impact, and choose instead to hold tight to the thought that you tried.” You also have the right to protect your heart from unsafe people. You do not have to continually open yourself up to people who prove to be unsafe. Find the people who affirm you, affirm your baby, and affirm your loss.

There is no timeline.

When you had your loss, no one pushed a stop watch counting down till you need to stop grieving. Your grief will come when it comes. Let it come.

RELATED: I Am 1 in 4

At first, grief may feel like the enemy.

Making you remember, making you mourn, when maybe all you want is to forget you ever had hope to begin with. Let’s be real — grief feels horrible to walk through.

But grief is nothing if not loyal. In fact, grief may be your most loyal friend. She wants to make sure your baby is remembered, loved, cherished no matter how much time has passed. In time, grief’s presence may feel familiar, maybe even warm, as she prompts you to face the love and loss of a precious child.

Your grief will be unique.

My grief will not look like yours or Sally’s or Katie’s or Hannah’s. Your grief will not look like your partner’s. This does not mean anyone’s grief is wrong.

Miscarriage may be common. But don’t let anyone discount how very real, and very hurtful your miscarriage was just because it happens to many women.

Cancer is common, too, but I’ve never heard any woman say, “oh you were just diagnosed with breast cancer? Don’t worry, that is super common nowadays. A lot of women get through it just fine.” So let’s not use the “it’s common” excuse for a lack of support when it comes to pregnancy loss.

RELATED: Why Miscarriage Matters When You’re Pro-Life

One last thing … maybe you didn’t have a miscarriage.

Maybe you had an ectopic or stillbirth. Maybe you had to terminate for medical reasons. Maybe you had a molar pregnancy or premature live birth. Words matter. Labels matter. These experiences are all vastly different, even while we share the common loss of a baby. It’s ok to use the right words.

Miscarriage happens. It hurts. It’s devastating. And it’s largely shrouded in unnecessary shame.

It’s time we start talking about it.

If you are looking for support following a pregnacy or infant loss, join us at Brave Mamas: The Safest Place to Grieve Your Child.

The post For the mama facing a miscarriage … your loss is real. appeared first on The Lewis Note.