Climbing Out, One Step at a Time

There’s a part of me I’ve been holding onto. Carefully, tenderly. A future version of myself that never came to be—a mother again. A new baby. A sibling for the ones I already hold close. I’ve been thinking about saying goodbye to my embryos. For six months, it’s circled my mind like a soft whisper and a heavy echo. I used to feel like I had time. Now, I just feel... more like myself again. The person I was before kids. The one who could breathe without thinking about fertility calendars, genetic risks, or insurance battles. I almost feel free. But freedom has a price. Even now, when I see friends announce pregnancies—joyful, glowing, hopeful—I smile for them. And then I cry for me. Not every time. But enough to know it’s not over. The longing has just changed shape. I’m not trying anymore. But I still grieve. This weekend, I’ve been everywhere but home. Friday, I sat with my sister. That kind of closeness is complicated—she’s left before. And when someone leaves enough times, you lear...

We got married in June 2016. By November, we were already dreaming big—talking baby names, counting days, and believing it would all come together quickly. Why wouldn’t it? We were young, healthy, and ready. In January 2017, I thought I was pregnant. I felt off in a way I couldn’t explain—late, tired, emotional. I was convinced. I went for bloodwork, almost excited. It wasn’t just a hope; it felt like a sign. But I wasn’t pregnant. They called me back for more bloodwork. They said my hormone levels looked... off. And then came the words I’ll never forget. I was driving when Dr. R called. He told me that based on my results, my hormone levels were consistent with someone going through menopause. I had to pull over. I was shaking so hard, crying so uncontrollably, I couldn’t see the road in front of me. I remember gripping the steering wheel, trying to make sense of how I went from imagining baby clothes to being told I might never get the chance. I was 32. I had just started. How could ...

This painting started the way many things in life do—unexpectedly. My daughter began by brushing watercolor pinks across the top of a circle. Then came a dark cloud, bold and a little mysterious. It wasn’t something I would’ve chosen—but it was real. Honest. Her. I didn’t want to correct it. I wanted to meet it. So I added to it At first, I painted a field of flowers. But soon, I saw something more: our story. Our family. The lives we’ve lived, the ones still growing, and the ones we hold in memory. Each flower became someone I love—two families of four, my sister standing independently, and the pair in the back: my mom and dad, or maybe my grandparents, still present in their own way. Then came the birds. They’re not just decorations in the sky—they’re us. Every bird I painted represents a family member of mine. Some flying together, some in pairs, one flying solo—but all of us moving through the same sky. We may drift, dip, or rise at different times, but we’re still part of the same...