It’s not Shutterfly’s fault. When they sent me those emails, I know they meant well. The emails came a week apart, but each contained the same message: “Remember these memories from 13 years ago? … We thought you’d like to press rewind and relive these times.”
And both weeks I cringed.
Because even though I’d like to think that I have gotten stronger in the past 13 years, I am not sure I could handle reliving those times. Those two months that my babies were in the NICU were some of the most difficult of my life. Yes, there were beautiful moments. And my years of infertility definitely made me appreciate every moment a little bit more than otherwise. But that doesn’t take away the fact that they were so gut-wrenchingly difficult.
And when those emails came, I knew this was something I needed to write about. But every time I sit down to write about this NICU experience and those two months of challenge, I struggle. It’s not my typical upbeat tone. That experience was heavy for me; full of daily emotional rollercoaster rides and intense crying sessions. After years of praying to be a mother, I wondered if my experience would be limited to this brief stint in the hospital. I wondered if these precious babies would come home with my husband and me or return to their heavenly home and wait for us there. And I tried to be OK either way. I tried every day. Because I knew it wasn’t up to me. I could do all that I could do, but at the end of the day, God’s plan is perfect and I had to trust in it. At the end of the day, I couldn’t will my children to keep living. I would have to trust that whatever happened would be the best outcome in the long run—even if I knew what I wanted in the moment. In every moment.
In the weeks since I’ve received these emails, I have attempted to write several drafts of this post. I think many of them were attempts to convey how impossible life felt for so many of those weeks. And I don’t know if any of my attempts do justice to just how overwhelmed and devastated I felt most days. But those drafts never felt right. And this morning, I sat down determined to finish a draft and publish it.
And then I remembered a key piece of information that you probably remembered before I did: my word for this year is HOPE.
Those months were intense. If they were a workout, those months were the most difficult part: you know the part where you wonder if you’ll pass out/throw up/die. If they were a hike, they would be the part where the trail isn’t marked and the only way forward is to scale the side of the mountain. If those months were a hurricane, they would be a major tornado spawning, destroying everything in its unpredictable path while the hurricane continued to rage on top of it all.
But living through our darkest moments helps us know we are never alone. Even though sitting between my two babies’ incubators watching them fight to breathe left me feeling so powerless, I was not hopeless. And knowing that I survived those terrifying two months, helped me know I could survive again when my last baby was transported to the Houston Medical Center and had to stay in the NICU there for a few days. I had seen my twins get spinal taps and IVs placed and replaced day after vein-collapsing day. My second experience with a NICU was still difficult, but felt so much more possible to navigate.
When we are living in dark moments–when, not if–we can always cling to hope. We can trust that better days will come. We can remember the dark moments of our past as points of reference. We can recognize the strength and perspective we have gained. And then we hang on. We do our best. And when we do, we can trust that all things will work together for our good. We will be OK.
But I have a spoiler for you: we will be better than OK. Sometimes in those dark moments, OK seems like the ultimate hope, right? So, in the moment, it’s alright if our hope is focused on OK. But I know with everything I’ve got that in the end, when we have given our best efforts, we will far exceed OK. We will look back and see the miracles and the joy that have filled the hole that was once devastation and loss. We will feel pure love reassuring us that we were never, in fact, alone. Never.
What I am learning about hope is that it can feel like a scarce commodity sometimes, especially in challenging times. But the truth is, hope is a renewable resource. We can–and must–generate more. We, like solar generators, must turn towards the light and invite it into our lives. That light will convert to hope, the energy we need most during challenging times. Keeping our proverbial batteries charged will help keep us ready when darkness arises. Just like we have to constantly recharge even our backup batteries to make sure they are fully charged during emergencies, we should always be feeding our souls with light. But if “always” seems a little daunting, start with today.
Whether you are in a time of darkness, dimness, or light, I hope that these thoughts bring you strength. I hope you cling to hope as you navigate your challenges–big and small. I hope this post is a source of light for you today and any day you choose to come back and revisit it. I hope this brings you joy.
