This morning I found myself standing alone, dressed in a hospital gown in a dimly lit room and couldn't help but think
This isn't mine.
I knew if I breathed in too deeply, I might cry.
Not because I was nervous.
Not because Russell couldn't come in with me.
Not because I was afraid of what I might find out.
But, because it wasn't mine.
Not my life.
Not my plan.
Not my 26th year.
I slipped on my shoes and looked down at my feet, past the gown and down to the fiesta colored slippers Russ bought me for our anniversary....
I've spent so much time running away from accepting the fact that I have over 4 years of heartache trying to get pregnant as part of my life. It is mine. Better or worse, it is part of who I am and who I will become. It is something that defines a part of me... and is a near constant struggle to not let consume me.
Most days I know that I am more than this, but some days I can't help but question if I am less. Some days, even just some hours, it feels too close...too thorough and too concrete to ever change, and I feel so completely overwhelmed that it is mine.
Even though its not the small house with a big yard with the children so seemingly perfect, that I could just kiss their tiny fingers and toes.
Even though it isn't those things...it is a husband who splits an ice cream with me after I cry about it sometimes feeling like it'll never change and the way it is, is just too much. It is the way he kisses me softly and, if even for that brief turning moment between crumbling down and realizing I can stand back up, it is knowing completely and fully that everything is going to be okay.
It, this life, this experience, this heartache, this love... is mine.
This is my 25, its not at all what I had expected, not exactly what I had thought I wanted.
It is hard.
It is beautiful.
It is mine.