I wish that I could tell you, after the unimaginable loss of our daughter, and earlier any hope of parenting through pregnancy, that moving on, living again, can happen while still holding on, but I can’t; moving on always means letting go, always.
These last few days I have learned that lesson tenfold, and in letting go I am living again.
Our daughter’s birth mother desired a relationship with me after the disruption. She and I grew close over all of the ups and downs of six months, and I was not ready to close the door, nor to define what an opening might look like. This week I was.
After lovingly sharing the deep pain the disruption caused, as well as my love and caring for both she and our daughter, I let go of the need to define tomorrow, and any expectation that I would hear from her again.
A few days later, I sat in a doctor’s office, surrounded by pictures of cherub looking babies, waiting for my name to be called. That day I would finally say “I am ready to let go, put me on the pill so I can finally feeling ok again after five years of this struggle.” I was ready to let go.
And today, after my iPhone’s steady demise, I received a new phone, which after activating, and deactivating my old phone, resulted in the disappearance of every stored text message. One of those text messages was a string between myself and our daughter’s birth mother, which spanned all of the way back to the beginning. I couldn’t let it go, and yet when left with no other choice, I did.
Moving on always means letting go, however letting go doesn’t always mean that we lose the love, or the hope, or the cherished memories. Moving on simply means that we release our death grip on what was, and in so doing open our hand to what can now become.
Only minutes after I let go of all expectations with our daughter’s birth mother, the phone rang and I received an offer, which will take me down a new path in my life. And the day before my doctor’s visit, I had a wonderful interview to volunteer at a local children’s hospital holding babies in the neonatal step down unit. During the interview, the director shared with me her 13 year struggle with infertility, and that many nurses and other hospital members had adopted babies through their work in the hospital.
I don’t know what my future will hold, and I don’t know how our second child will find their way into my arms. What I do know however is that I had to make room there in order for them to arrive. I had to let go.
Sometimes we need to ask ourselves what we are holding onto, and what is holding onto us, then we need to find a way to let them go. Only then can we discover the wonderful things just waiting to occupy their vacated spaces.