I’ve always noticed the way light dances on water, the way it shimmers atop the deep blue undertones beneath it. And while the water swells below, it remains. It holds itself fixed to the crest of waves and sets itself ablaze in a glittery magic show.
I remember when I stopped seeing it — the light. It happened on a walk at the Harbor. “I can’t do this anymore,” I said as I poured my aching heart out onto David. We talked that night as tears fell silently down beneath our feet. We circled the darkened water with fears cropping up in our throats. “What if we never become parents?” We asked ourselves the hard questions as the reality of nine years of infertility etched a hole in our hearts.
And while the still, dark water of the Harbor surrounded us, we forced ourselves to remember the light. We squinted our eyes to see it there — that tiny glimmer, that speck of hope. And then, right there at the water’s edge, we decided to fight.
I remember staring down at my exposed stomach one October afternoon and wondering what the scars would look like. Two weeks remained until my laparoscopy. I was bitter about it. And while my heart fluttered with anxiety, we danced upon the Harbor’s water with the light of hope tinkling underneath our feet.
I showed up to the water’s edge last weekend with battle wounds. The deep red lines that had permanently chiseled their way into my skin from my laparoscopy hadn’t faded. Nearly two years later, they remained as a testament of hope. Because as I held my baby against those battle wounds, I was reminded of the fight. I was reminded of the diets, the supplements, the hormones, the surgery. I was reminded of that small illumination, that shred of light that continually propelled me forward.
Sometimes light is blinding. It is especially so when you’ve spent time spent in darkness. It takes a while for your eyes to adjust. And that’s where I am — in the space between the dark and the light. The space where your eyes are blinded by beauty.
I hope I always remain there, in that glaring light — constantly astounded by the gift in my arms. And when the darkened water seeks to swallow our hope, may we fight to see the light.
One. More. Time.
Always, one more time.