I’ve hesitated to write on this subject because It’s hard to talk about waiting. It’s hard to talk about infertility and the pain that comes with the empty womb, the “empty” home, the “empty” arms. Although I knew before I married my husband that our plan would be to adopt, I didn’t know how difficult that actually might be. I wasn’t scared of asking for support from family and friends. I wasn’t scared of adopting. I wasn’t worried that I’d have trouble loving a child that was not biologically mine. I really had high hopes and excitement and expectation. But two years down the adoption road, after we picked the agency, filled out piles of paperwork, completed hours of training, raised thousands of dollars, and were still waiting, I was starting to get a little worried. After the agency closed the program we were in, my dreams of loving a child who was already in the world- my dream of adoption- started feeling less attainable. We tried adopting several more times over the next five years, and those stories are for another time. The longing for a child became more real after a few more unsuccessful adoption attempts all-the-while, many family members and friends were getting pregnant, having babies, and even adopting with ease.
My hopes and excitement for our adoption served me well in some ways, taking my mind off of our infertility and the hope eased my grief. I often didn’t even count myself among those who struggled with infertility, because I had told myself for years that it didn’t matter- we would adopt. But when the adoptions weren’t happening, and another birthday, Christmas, or Mother’s Day passed without a child in my life, the reality set in.
As I’ve gone through the last seven or more years of longing for a child, I’ve found that one of the hardest things about infertility is the isolation one feels. It’s not widely talked about. It almost feels like a shameful cycle of sadness, grief, jealousy, frustration, and then guilt for feelings of jealousy, and then around and around again. It’s painful and it can be lonely. You want to be happy for your dearest friends when they get pregnant, have a baby, or successfully adopt. And part of you truly IS happy. But it does sting and makes the hole feel a bit bigger and makes the longing more palpable.
I know there have to be others out there like me. Other women and men who are sitting in the in-between. Sitting somewhere between grief and hope. Sitting somewhere wondering if and when they will ever have a child to love for the long haul. In these moments of struggle, longing, grief, I tend to start asking questions. Where do I run for comfort and consolation? Who else knows how I feel? When do I need to just “let go” of this dream? How do I find peace in the longing? These are questions I’m currently asking myself.
My life is full and beautiful and I’m so very thankful for many many things. I believe I’m loved and known by a God who sees me right where I am. I believe there’s a bigger, more beautiful story being written that I just don’t know about yet. I’m walking forward with faith even though my steps may be cautious and weary.
Lately I’ve been meditating on this poem by Jan L. Richardson;
Peace in the longing,
Peace in the leaving,
Peace in the letting go.
In every step, peace.
I’m working toward this posture of peace. This posture of trust and waiting and not losing hope. I don’t know how our story will unfold, but I’ve seen enough beauty in the stories around me to trust that one day I’ll be writing from the other side of this longing.
I hope wherever you are on your journey, that you might find peace in the longing – somehow, some way, in every step, peace.
