Her Hour Is My Hour

As life wove itself around the undergirding story of my barrenness, I couldn’t always tell what might send me right back to the dull ache or sharp pain of my lack, though baby showers seemed consistently to take me to that place.

Why do I do this to myself? I wondered again, smiling for the camera, sitting next to the guest of honor as she opened gifts.

She spoke, candidly, among friends—sisters, some with wombs opened and many who hadn’t yet borne children—of the moment of her first baby’s birth when weeping ensued and her body released new life. They leaned in, some curious, others knowing.

I distanced myself as I listened, knowing that if I engaged with what she was saying I might just break, right there on the couch beside her. I hid, inside, working my face so that it didn’t reveal the bleeding I felt internally. She knew something so glorious that my years of asking still hadn’t given me, and at this stage, it wasn’t the cuddles and baby-fresh skin and monumental “firsts” that allured me. It was the experience of having a body that did what it was supposed to do.

Hers was apparently majestic—holy, other—and mine damaged. Continue reading over here on ibelieve —>


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