Oh, hello, my beautiful loves! It has been a hot while. I sit down to write this blog post in the middle of COVID-19 not because I have something specific or profound to say, but because I am bubbling, simmering, overflowing and emptied of so many feelings—in equal measure, in chorus, in intermission, through great highs and deep lows, sharp breaths and real cries. And, I know you are, too. I sit down to write because words always walk me toward some sort of healing, however small—and because often, I don’t know what I am thinking until I see myself on the page. There you are, feelings. Hey. Like so many of us, especially moms of littles, I don’t have a ton of extra time or capacity now, but I do have one hour, which I can hardly believe! For 60 minutes, I’ll type and then share.
So hi, friend.
My timer is set!
For real, the memes are keeping me going. The worldwide humor is boundless. I can’t remember the last time I saw so much wit and creativity, everywhere—the dances, the songs, the art, the words, the jokes, the shrugs and self-hugs. I am not into the posts out to shame people for loving the humor. I know the pain is unreal. I know the death toll is rising.
I know, I know, I know.
And I cry, every day, with you, with us all, with my dear friends on the front lines.
But I can’t cry all day long. The great pain is why we need laughter. And you are not obligated to laugh, but what can we possibly do if not permitted to crack up over the toilet paper, the Tiger King, and the comedy of trying to homeschool big kids while our babies climb onto our laptops? There is humor. Of course, there is.
And we can laugh precisely because, just beneath it, upholding it, carrying it, is indescribable tenderness and humility.
The shelves are bare. What does this mean? I thought we lived in America.
The Tiger King lost his own kingdom. Joe Exotic’s eyes looked so sad to me.
Educating my big kids, entertaining my baby and gripping onto my sanity are requiring more than I have to give. Why am I crying, again? Thankful to have a house. Thankful to have a family. Thankful, thankful, thankful.
I hear it, and I believe it, the gratitude lists and the mantras. Thankfulness can shift our experience and the ground upon which we stand. But as we keep marching on, I think we also have to be wary of mistaking deep, genuine gratitude for cheap or insincere cheer. Of dismissing our valid grief.
Oh, she’s treating patients and I get to stay home. I know I’m so blessed. It’s fine.
Well, I have a house, and they’re in an apartment, so—I know that we’re lucky. It’s fine.
My husband didn’t lose his job, which is amazing. His salary might be cut in half this year, but you know. We’ll survive. I think.
It’s fine.
It’s fine.
It’s not fine.
And it is okay.
Let it crumble, let it flow. Our tears wash away the things we aren’t meant to carry. If we keep our tears inside, they threaten to choke us instead, with sorrow, bitterness, loss, confusion, mistrust, or rage.
During the month before this all happened, I had five—five—women in my life reach out to me specifically about my three bouts of hyperemesis gravidarum, extreme nausea and vomiting during pregnancy. Even “extreme” seems insufficient, honestly. I have written and talked about this a lot, most extensively here—and I will go down saying those were some of the most excruciating and eternal months of my life.
Desperate and miserable, like I was, these presently suffering friends of mine all asked the very same thing. First, they wanted tips for managing the actual sickness. And tips, girlfriend, I’ve got ‘em! There are plenty of tricks for the body and tummy that can provide temporary relief.
But every girl’s identical follow-up question looked a lot more like this:
How did you cope, though—really? Did you read anything that helped you get through this level and duration of suffering? What did you actually DO when it felt like you couldn’t go on, or do this for one more day? How did you do this THREE times?! Am I going to be okay?
And from the first-time moms-to-be:
Is this worth it? Is being a mother really worth all this time at the toilet, in the dark, on my knees?
That’s when I feel myself smiling, because she can’t know till she knows. But oh, she will know.
And then, soon enough, she will do it all over again, of her very own volition, because the inexplicable worth cannot be grasped or tamed.
But to the nuts-and-bolts question of truly: How did you do this? I have only one truest answer. During those seasons, every single night, after dinner, I went into my bedroom at 7:30 p.m. while Doug took care of the dishes and putting any children to bed. I was out of commission by then, because my nausea surged in the evenings. I would throw up my dinner, every night, no exception. Often twice or five times. I’d crawl into bed, listen to music, and cry till I fell asleep.
Every.
Single.
Night.
For months, this was my nightly routine. I had nothing left to give, so I rested. I had nothing left to say, so I stopped using my voice. I had nothing left to see that wouldn’t leave me dizzy or sicker, and so I closed my tired eyes. I sank into bed, I blasted worship into my earbuds, and I let my tears wash me clean.
During that time, I healed and transformed. In my third and final round, the physical agony was compounded by the emotional stress of becoming pregnant so soon after a miscarriage. Would I lose her? Could I keep her? Would God take another small life from me? There was no guarantee. I let my tears fall and flow—lest I choke on my sorrow, bitterness, loss, confusion, mistrust, or rage.
Friends, I don’t know very much right now. Does anybody? None of us has been through this before—not one soul in the world. We are etching history, creating destiny, finding our way in the dark. But I do know that the only moments of true and utter peace I am finding right now are when I get nice and quiet—which looks often (ALMOST ALWAYS) like popping in my AirPods, drowning out everything else, and meditating on the truth in my heart.
I let myself cry and feel. It doesn’t make logical sense, of course, that the only peace we can find is way, way down at rock bottom. But for me, in times like this, of true desperation, it’s the only way that I know. Prayer. Surrender. Faith. And then, suddenly, it makes supernatural sense. Because there is a rock that is higher, and higher, and higher still. A peace beyond our own understanding.
One comment that often follows from my sick pregnant mamas:
“Thank you. I think I needed to hear that it was this hard for someone else. It makes me feel better. Thank you.”
You are welcome, my loves.
And this, you guys??!!
Every single bit of coronavirus and our present world?
It is that hard. It is that wild. It is that unbelievably difficult and mind-blowing for me. I’m guessing: for most of us.
I emerged from my pregnancy with Reese as a different person, forever, but that transformation came at a tremendous cost. Those months in the dark, puking my heart out, gaining more pounds than I knew possible, weeping alone while my sweet husband cared for our babies—they shaped me. I sure wouldn’t have picked them, but I wouldn’t trade them now.
Is it worth it?
Beyond.
And can’t you hear us already—in ten, twenty precious years?
Remember those days at home? Remember when everything stopped, and nothing was ever the same again? Remember when Dad was home, and you did First Grade on Zoom? Remember when Mom got yelled at in Trader Joe’s for not social distancing properly, but for the first time in her whole life, felt no embarrassment at being called out in public like that, but instead told the male employee who instantly showed remorse for his harshness: “No, Sir. Thank you. For being here. Working. You are doing your job.”
We are stuck in our homes, locked in the dark, covered in children, missing our friends, toasting each other on FaceTime. Losing our minds, losing a lot. Wearing masks, waiting in lines, taking one carton of eggs, surprising each other with drive-bys, sharing our jokes and our hearts—
It’s scary.
But look at the love.
Look at the beauty. Look at us holding each other, from so much farther than six feet apart. We will rise up from this different, forever—but together, this time. Clearer, stronger and purer than ever before.
I can already feel the tears coming when I imagine hugging my mom.
Or laughing over coffee with you.
Or holding a brand-new baby.
And nothing was ever the same again.
I was going to write a bit about the process of querying my first novel in quarantine times—#querantining, I call it—but my hour is almost up, so I’ll do a separate post soon.
And I’ll end with just one more thing.
Last week, one night on the couch before Netflix, I sent a few last DMs and tagged my besties in a couple more memes. I was smiling, sadly, really missing my friends. Doug looked at me and asked thoughtfully:
“What if social media was created for this very moment?”
I stopped, I breathed, and I pondered.
I recently took my biggest break from Instagram since joining in 2012. Six. Whole. Weeks. Now, I did this for the sole purposes of clearing my head, silencing noise and focusing on my book. But I’ve had plenty of seasons where the bad of my screen-time, specifically Insta, seemed to outweigh the good for 100 other reasons. The comparison traps, spending temptations, weird rabbit holes leaving me blah. I still think social media is super-tricky—and that frequent breaks and boundaries are key. I usually know when I need a breather. I also 100% get and respect when people opt out completely.
But while I was away, this time, for weeks upon weeks?
I missed it.
I missed it a lot.
I was fine without it, of course. And super productive, fine! But I missed the actual people. I missed you guys! I talk to some of you only online, but on a regular basis. And you friends bring me so much joy. Your babies, your musings, your fun trips. I love it all. And it just so happened that completing my book coincided with a moment in history when I can’t imagine being offline. It is so good to be back.
One of the easy criticisms of social media is, “Oh, the connections aren’t real. They’re a substitute for the real thing.”
But from where I’m sitting right now, I just don’t think that’s true. We feel collectively, perhaps now more than ever, that, of course, online dialogue will never substitute real relationships. We all feel the isolation—the lack of embraces, shared meals and loud celebrations. It hurts; viscerally pinches our insides.
But what if we had no technology? Isn’t it true that the Internet has never been funnier? Isn’t it true that we’re lifting each other up with our stories, our jokes, our shared ache?
Social media will never be the same as a hug. “It will not bring you soup,” people say. Then again, it also might. I’m seeing strangers send money and diapers. I’ve had multiple visitors to my underground library. These connections are true and distinct. Not a substitute for the real thing, but at the very least, one bright reflection, when used with love and authenticity.
Right here, right now, in this unprecedented time of insanity, as we laugh and cry, homeschool and argue, acknowledge the now, accept what we know and believe in a brighter tomorrow—today, I chose to take my one precious hour to write on my blog, on the Internet.
When all other interaction is stripped away, and we’re left with only our portals… Well, they sure feel real to me.
So give me the Group Texts, Marco Polos, TikToks, FaceTime, Zoom, Google Classroom, IG, blog posts, even some Facebook.
I guess I’m just saying I’m thankful.
I’m happy, I’m sad, and I’m scared.
I’m echoing Doug’s, “What if?”
I’m saying that I would tell Hyperemesis Me not to strive too hard for the end, not to live for the life up ahead, surely coming in bright relief. I would tell her instead to exhale and relax as deeply as she could, right into the questions and suffering—to listen close, breathe in grace, and see what pain has to teach her. I would tell her the best is ahead, but that she’s going to have to hold on for a while. And that this mysterious cycle of dark and then light, crash and uprising, might continue in cycles forever. Because it’s the story of all. Death and birth and renewal.
Sunset, sunrise. And again, and repeat. The only truest way forward.
And, shoot, my timer is up.
I love you all.
SO MUCH!
Thank you, as always, for being here. Thank you for reading my words.
I’m sending you so many air-hugs!!!!!!!!!!!
Jennifer Blossom says
Yes. All of this.
stephanie@stephaniemack.com says
LOVE YOU SO MUCH, my sister!