Within three minutes of an email entitled “Blood Drive- HQ” filtering into my inbox, I had, without hesitation, committed electronically a unit of my blood in three days time. Why the excitement? Why the impulse to tap a vein over my lunchbreak on a Friday afternoon?

The answer can be found 7 years, 325 days ago in an entry way of blood, where I lay slumped against a wall---bewildered, gutted, and in contemplation if I was living my last moments. The dawn yet not completely broken on a Monday, my daughters asleep, and my husband at the office; I laid in wait with the cold of a lingering Winter, yet the freshness of a new Spring, in the breeze from the opened door.

I can still feel that cold air tingling on my naked skin with the juxtaposition of the warm blood--my blood—leaving my body as if it was abandoning me. I had never seen so much blood, felt so weak, been so frightened, or truly questioned if I wanted to survive the pain or irrevocable damage that my heart knew was inevitable. Those moments are imprinted on my senses on a cellular level—seemingly now and forever beneath the surface awaiting a trigger.

Repressed and logically driven into the depths of my memory vault, that day is buried. Yet, that Monday changed the course of my life. It changed me, wholly and completely. I shared with my love that day a profound loss that will always be present and only completely shared and understood with one another.

While the freight train of unbearable grief was unavoidable, my body—with units of donated blood and surgery—survived that day. I left the hospital room adorned with the white rose of what has always felt like shame and maternal failure to live another 7 years, 325 days. Those days that have been blessed with many triumphs, life fulfilling memories, and much to everyone’s surprise--and insane persistence—the birth, against all odds, of another miracle child.

It is this fairytale ending that has always been my focus and my center of gratitude, renewal of faith, and insatiable appetite for life. So, it was much to my surprise that the day of my repayment to the universe with a blood donation was met with sadness, confusion, anxiety, and utter emotional exhaustion.

There was an absence of finality to the experience as if donating blood would close the gap to what still feels like a hole in my life. Grief crept into the space that I had created for relief. Shame and the imposter syndrome were the forefront emotions that I experienced upon someone simply expressing they were “proud” of my blood bank donation.

While my body still recovers from the donation, my mind is also desperate to process the day and to understand the contradiction of emotions. Logically, I understand—especially given my blood type—the importance of my contribution. It is literally life-saving, yet it doesn’t feel like I’ve begun to repay any debt to the universe. There is still a void in my heart, and as much as I want to repress every emotion, the day that I became a blood donor recipient was a day of trauma. And donating blood is going to be a trigger to that trauma.

And I must be okay with that… bad days happen. Trauma happens. Triggers happen. Putting one foot in front of the other to survive the bad days with optimism is still what I believe is best, but emotional repression is an avoidance, not a solution. I must to gift to myself what I gift to others—and that is the lesson here for all of us. I generously allow others to heal without judgement, a time table, a set of rules, or an arbitrary rating system of trauma and loss—yet I’ve not given myself the same latitude and compassion. I don’t allow myself to stop to feel a twinge of emotion for something that happened nearly eight years ago because in my mind that was long enough ago to “be over it”. I rate my pain and loss as insignificant because I survived; I have had many more blessed moments before and since, etc. etc. The fact remains that none of that negates the trauma.

We simply owe ourselves the same compassion and forgiveness that we give to others. We owe ourselves time… time to heal, time to process, and time to relapse. Grief is not linear, nor is affliction something we ever completely overcome.

While I process unexpected emotions and memories from an eight-year-old trauma and loss, I’m also gearing up for the next quarter when I make another blood bank donation. Next time, however, I will be armed with the knowledge, experience, and emotional preparedness from this first donation.

For information on how you can “Be a Hero” visit http://www.giveblood.org/ and “Commit for Life”