Almost every night before bed, we do “high, low, buffalo” with our older kids. The high is the best part of your day, low is the worst, and buffalo is something bizarre or funny you want to share about your day. Recently, we were talking about our daily low which led to a conversation about the worst day we’ve ever had. Nick claimed the day he stuck a lead fishing weight up his nose and had to go to the hospital to get it flushed out as his worst day ever.
Nick turned seven yesterday (no, I can’t believe it) and I think we are doing okay if that’s the worst day of his life so far. After all, it ended with a smile and giant blue slushie. I’ve been having a really hard time with this birthday and I know exactly why; my sister was seven when our older brother died in a pedestrian/auto accident. I’m sure she would have labeled *that* day as her worst day ever. Now she has a baby of her own, and I have three, one who is now seven. Someday, they will all be seven and then eleven (which is how old I was when my brother died). It is impossible for me to think about my children navigating a sibling loss at any age, but especially as I see everything my typical seven-year-old is doing. I really can’t believe my sister survived such a traumatic event at seven (I’m not comparing our losses, I know I will feel the same way when I have an 11-year-old). How would any seven-year-old be able to navigate learning how to read, solve math problems, ride a bike, throw a football, make new friends, follow societal rules/expectations all while managing the aftermath of a sibling death? Sibling death includes loss of parents and life as you know it. Developmentally/socially/emotionally losing a sibling during adolescence put us at such a disadvantage. If it wasn’t for a rock-solid support system and our faith, I don’t think my sister and I would be where we are today, and for that, I am thankful. For me, losing a sibling during adolescence forced me to develop survival skills I don’t know I would have otherwise. I think I pushed the enormity of my grief so far away just so I could survive. These survival skills were often labeled as “mature,” independent, achievement-oriented, and driven. Subconsciously, I think I was making things as easy as I could on my parents. After all, they deserved a “really good kid” after losing their only son. Needless to say, I’ve been in therapy trying to process the most intense grief I’ve ever experienced since my brother died in 2002. I don’t need the same set of survival skills I did when I was 11. I’m learning how to have fun, for the sake of having fun, how to slow down and do less, and accept “good enough” over perfectionism. I chuckle thinking about 2015 Haley sitting in therapy sharing I was “grieving that I wasn’t grieving anymore.” I truly thought I was through the darkest days of grief and healing would be linear from there. A few weeks ago, I was recalling a memory with my therapist and with tears slipping out of her eyes, she looked at me and said, “Haley, this time I think you’re grieving for that 11-year-old little girl.” That may have been the most profound thing said to me in therapy, ever (and I’ve been in a lot of therapy). I lost it. Because she’s right and I've never gotten to do that before. Author Jamie Wright writes this about her son who died by suicide four years ago: “Four years, baby boy. How is this even real? Your absence has become your presence. An enormous hole in the middle of every room. To talk about you, to share you, to say your name…Jamison…is to creep up and peer over the edge. To laugh about something you said or did is to dance along the rim on my tiptoes. To talk to you, like this, is to sit down and dangle my bare feet over the rift that you created between Heaven and Earth. It’s glorious and terrifying. Early on, I learned how dangerous this hole can be. I know that if I get too close, if I go too far, I will tumble in, I will shatter into a million pieces and fall apart. I know how hard it is to pull myself back together and claw my out. But I also know you’re there, in the Grand Canyon of my grief. So I will go there, too. This hole cannot be filled. No one would even try. No the real temptation is to build a fence around it, a sturdy wall to keep us safe from the pain of losing you and to prevent us from seeing the glaringly empty space where you are supposed to be. But wall or no wall, the place you’re missing from is still there. It always will be. It’s been there for four years. Four fucking years. With this thing there, because you’re *not*. Today, I’ll get as close to you as I know how to be without, like, dying. I’m learning how to get closer still, how to find you and see you in all the places that you are not. I’m learning to be awed by the expanse rather than afraid of it. Instead of a wall, I choose to live with the hole-the ever-present absence of *you*. Jamison. I miss you. I love you. I’m sorry. I’m right here. As close as can be.” I can’t explain it with my own words any better than that. So I’ll reflect on hers. Maybe for the first time, I’ve allowed the sturdy wall, the one that helped me survive and kept me safe from the pain of losing my brother, to fall. I’ve started to explore the Grand Canyon of my own grief. Maybe I’ve gotten too close and tumbled right in. But sometimes, I’d rather be here…shattered into a million pieces, because that’s where my brother is. It’s glorious and terrifying as I start to remember what it was like to have an older brother. I’m recalling memories I’ve forgotten about for two decades. Grieving for the 11-year-old Haley is terrifying and vulnerable. This may sound ridiculous to someone who hasn’t experienced it, but it makes me feel like a little girl again. Because I was one the day my brother died, the day I played my flute at his memorial service, the day I watched his casket be lowered into the ground, and then all the days after that I went out into the world as "the girl who's brother died." Those don't really sound like little girl things. One day I was one and the next day I wasn't. It would be easier to keep building the wall and cling to the same survival skills that have served me well. At the end of the day, I would have something to look instead of all the empty spaces of where Nick is supposed to be. and all the childhood I lost. But, I will keep learning how to get as close as I can. Not only for myself but also for my husband, kids, and everyone else who didn’t have the chance to know Nick, to get to know how through my memories. For my family too, because we all deserve to remember what a special, beautiful, bright, and loving son, brother, and friend we had in Nick. Nick, I miss you. I love you. I’m right here, as close as I can be.
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May 15, 2022 will mark twenty years since my brother died in an auto-pedestrian accident. Two decades. A life that seems like yesterday, a lifetime ago, and sometimes, one that seems like it never happened at all. An event that created a distinct “before and after” in my family’s life and shaped us into the people we are today.
May 15, 2022 is also my sister’s due date. A 1 in 365 chance. While I know it’s just a due date and the baby will come on her own time, I still can’t believe of all the days in a year, it’s that one. It feels like a beautiful story of redemption and yet so unfair at the same time. Of all the joyful things that grief can overshadow, I don’t want it to be this one. I know it won’t regardless, because there are few things better than fresh baby snuggles, but it’s a lot of emotions to manage at once. This morning I wrapped up my last long run before my half marathon next weekend. I took the turn into my park loop, where I run around Maplewood Lake, and unexpectedly started sobbing when I saw the incredible sunrise. It was the kind of cry where you are bent over and the emotional pain of missing becomes physical. How could there be moments like this 20 years later when there are days I’m not even sure I consciously think about the fact I used to have an older brother? These moments whiplash me into the 11-year-old version of myself the quickest. They remind me of times I would ride my bike (or later when I could, drive) to the cemetery and sob. The place I went often enough and told no one. That grass has been watered with tears when I wasn’t sure who to talk to or how to cope. A place I went to after the death of childhood best friend and a grandparent, a miscarriage, and martial hardships. But today, I remembered all the normals days I have gone there too. Times when I would look around first to make sure no one else was there before getting on my knees and putting my hands on the ground or touching my brothers headstone and letting it out. Times were my grief was oddly mixed with shame and it felt embarrassing to cry that hard. I felt that this morning too. I shouldn’t be surprised by this morning. I’ve been feeling “it” for weeks. My body knows, it remembers, and I’m not the only one in my family experiencing this. The feeling of spring, of everything coming to life and then a sudden death. Driving past packed little league fields and remembering May 14, 2002 when I walked down to Grandville Little League to tell my coach I wouldn’t be at practice later because my brother was in the hospital, completely naive to how serious the situation was. Then a few days later having my brothers team and every team he would have played against come to Cook Funeral Home in uniform to give my parents a baseball. Hearing track meets at the school behind our house and remembering the morning my brother died, wanting to tell him he did a good job at his meet the night before but then not saying anything. Hundreds of little reminders, or regrets that feelings of fault that have been processed with different therapists throughout the years. Also, before the park loop, I was listening to a podcast with Brene Brown where she talks about having to unlearn the post-childhood trauma survival skills of hyper-vigilance, anticipating and planning for the worst, and making sure everyone else is ok. Those skills got me through childhood and my young adulthood. I did not know a single other 11 year old who experienced a sibling death. I was paving my own way. Brene talks about her unmatched ability to dig deep when needed and how it’s causing her to take dirt and excavate areas that don’t belong to her as an adult and I resonated with her words so much. Honestly, my ability to dig deep, to forge through, is something I take pride in a majority of the time. I will not quit. I will get it done no matter the cost. And I will do it well. I’m just starting to realize that “no matter the cost” does actually come with a cost. It takes from people I love the most and it’s time to unlearn some things and relearn others. It’s time to learn how to be softer. To enjoy spring in my heart without preparing for winter. Two decades of missing. The days were it feels terribly unfair and beyond painful are rare, but when they come, wow it’s hard to figure out how we’ve survived this long. But here we are, through survival mode, most days, I consider my brother’s death the most tender, brutal, and somehow beautiful thing we’ve ever had to do as a family. None of us would choose it if we had to but I’m glad we are in this place. Nicholas Scott Stegeman, life is not forever but love is and I’m thankful for that love and the promise of eternal life. You are missed and remembered. Today marks the beginning of black history month and I’ve been thinking about what that looks like in my life and in our house. Our older kids have become more aware of race and physical characteristics/differences in general. In reflecting on what we’ve tried to teach our kids about race and diversity throughout the years, I realized (thanks to some great books and Instagram accounts) a majority of our at-home-discussion has missed the mark.
For example, On Martin Luther King Jr. Day, we talked about segregation and how there was a period in time where black people could not attend the same schools as white people. When they started asking why, my response was “because of the color of their skin,” because honestly, that’s what I remember being told throughout my education. I’m now aware the language I used with my kids was harmful. It wasn’t because of the color of their skin that black people couldn’t attend the same schools as white people, it was because of racist laws. Later that night, we were watching one of my work kids play basketball on an all black team in a primarily all black league, and my daughter asked “where is the white team?” It was an innocent and valid question because I’m sure it’s really hard for my kids to understand segregation in a historical context when in our lives, they still see a lot of division between white and black people. Our circles are very white. Also, our conversations about diversity usually highlight racism, injustice, and oppression, with a “but God made us all unique and equal” blurb at the end. I’ve lumped diversity into racism and therefore, have missed the opportunity to truly celebrate other people who may look and live differently than we do. I want to be absolutely clear I think it’s important and necessary for my kids to understand historical complexities, and present realities of racism and also, I don’t want it to be all they know, see, and hear about black lives. I want my kids to celebrate black culture, black art, black music, black beauty, black business, and black lives. And not just in February. This is going to take intentional work on our part. I have a few tangible ideas to start broadening our world and thought I’d share if you’re needing some ideas too. I don’t share to act like we are the model or experts on racism and diversity because are not that at all. We will keep watching my work kids play basketball on Monday nights. The first week, Jade learned she has drip (and also learned what that means-she’s fashionable) as one kid told her. If you’d like to come, there is a tournament later this month and next week highlights seniors. There is tons of talent in this league and unfortunately due to a number of different factors, players are unable to play with their high school teams. We WILL be eating Soul by the Pound cake this month (the owner is my coworker and friend-look her up on Facebook she makes the most amazing pound cake). If you think a midi size will be big enough for your family, it won’t be-I can eat a whole one by myself in about 3 days. I will be checking out books from the library such as I am Enough and Don’t Touch my Hair as Jade has asked lots of questions about black hair. Tonight we read about Wangari Maathai at dinner and I will be attending a book study on Be the Bridge by Latasha Morrison at my church. These are just a few ideas, a scratch on the surface of what there is to celebrate and learn this month and every day. Black Lives Matter. Thankful for the black lives who have enriched mine. On my way home from Florida last week, my mom asked me why I didn’t blog anymore. I told her I have about 20 drafts saved but feel like I have nothing to say that hasn’t been said better by someone else. I don’t know where my voice belongs in conversations that I care about and are important to me (the Church, racism, injustice, privilege…). Nor do I think sharing my thoughts would help create the needed cohesion and change I’m desperate to see.
But on Christmas Eve during the candlelight service, as my 5-year-old sat on my lap, I realized it’s probably the last Christmas he will fit on my lap. I also realized I have a few things to say that can only be said by me. Austin and I are in marriage counseling and I’m surprised by how often we talk about my childhood trauma. Not at all what I expected to be talking about when we started about a year ago. I mentioned this to our therapist on Wednesday and she gently pointed out some experiences, like the loss of a sibling (and subsequently life as I knew it for 11 years) don’t just resolve. They get processed differently as an adult than they do as a child. Which seems obvious and makes perfect sense as the tears have flowed fast and hot the past two sessions as I try to talk about my brother and all the ways his death has impacted my experience as a parent. Most of the time, it’s a running internal dialogue, trying to stash as many memories as possible. Like on Christmas Eve, taking in the weight of my son on my lap, trying to memorize what that feels like, not because he might not fit on my lap next year, but more because “what if…”. It’s not being able to help but see the resemblance between my brother Nick and my son Nick as his hair fades from blonde to brown, the moles on his stomach rolls, and his genuine heart for Jesus and people. Although my two younger children don’t share as many physical characteristics as my oldest, I still find myself trying to etch the sound of Jade’s laughter on my heart forever, remembering my brother’s belly laugh at the top of the stairs at our Ivanrest house as we listen to a recording of my dad singing How Great Thou Art and taking snapshots of Brayden’s smile when it’s clear he’s headed towards mischief. It's trying to hold my kids so unbelievably tight at the same time I try to hold my hands wide open to what God’s plans are for their lives. It is confusing, and takes so much effort to live in moments, knowing I will likely share with them with my kids as adults someday and not only as treasured memories in my heart. Remembering my brother this holiday season has been unexpectedly raw and painful. There are moments I feel like an 11-year-old sister stuck in those early days of grief and can’t believe I’m 30-years-old with three beautiful kids of my own. To know someone who's love was so pure, who had such deep impact on my life and community has been one of my life’s greatest blessings and source of pain. I look forward to the day all of the hope, joy, peace, and love the representation of Jesus in a manager becomes eternity. Nicholas Scott Stegeman, you are missed. Your love for me and the impact of your death has helped me notice so many small things about life and my kids that I think I would have otherwise missed. My son has your looks and heart. My daughter has your sense of humor and care for others. My youngest son has your mischief and love. I have your legacy, and the hope of Heaven. I hesitate to write about racism because I'm not sure where my white, upper-middle class, privileged voice fits in the conversation. I want to start by again, acknowledging my privilege and my need to continue learning (and unlearning). I have tried to do just that, by listening more and speaking less, participating in a book study on The Color of Compromise, and advocating for change in the way I teach my children to love others who look different than them. This is not to pat myself on the back; the work to be done is lifelong and will require more sacrifice than I've been willing to give and more uncomfortable conversations than I've been unwilling to have.
That being said, I also hesitate to remain silent because I don't want to be "about BLM" only when the next public and highly publicized injustice occurs and the wave of social media support begins. I hesitate in sharing the following stories because you shouldn't have to hear it from me to believe racism is real. I'm white and therefore, have never experienced racism. You should believe the black and brown people telling you how they experience racism, injustice, profiling, and microagressions on a daily basis (even if you don't personally know them). Also, it feels a little "exploity" (which I feel I've done in the past) to say, "Hey look at my one black friend who had to have a conversation with her teenage son about wearing a hoodie before he went out for a drive with his friend." My heart isn't to exploit my friends, or my kid's best friends who I'm going to speak about in a minute here. My heart in sharing is for my white, conservative, upper-middle class, Christian friends to read and conclude racism is real and it's time to take in active role in being anti-racist. On the topic of exploitation of black lives, if stories regarding racism have become a modern form of entertainment for us and have not moved us to action, we should be saddened and embarrassed. When They See Us, Seven Seconds, the Kalief Browder documentary, the Derek Chauvin Trial...have become Netflix binges and media sensations. We have become desensitized to the reality of five children spending a quarter of a century fighting for their innocence, another child being held at Rikers Island jail for 3 years for allegedly stealing a backpack who went on to die by suicide, and 8 minutes and 46 seconds of a knee of George Floyd's neck as he called out for his mom. The lives of black people matter. A few weeks ago I went on vacation with my family and two of Nick and Jade's friends, who happen to look different than us. Their skin is brown. The comments began at the airport when an employee jokingly told Austin to "leave [my] uterus alone." Ma'am, obviously these children are either 1. not all my husband's or 2. not all ours. Day 2, we are walking to the pool. I'm a little bit behind pushing Brayden in the stroller when someone stops me and says, "It's a really great thing you're doing fostering those children." Sir, these are my kid's friends. The assumption they are in foster care based on the fact they look different than me is...well, racist. Last, we are on the flight home and the lady in front of us says, "Wow, beautiful family. Three bio and two adopted?" What? I know she was well-meaning but wow, the 9-year-old and 5-year-old sitting right next to me have ears and can hear you. Even they were adopted, I'm not sure a well meaning stranger would need to point that out. I get it, these are small occurrences but all I can see if a life full of judgements towards a 9 and 5-year-old I love as much as I love my own kids. They are an extension of my family and it hurts to know how they will experience racism and how it will change over time. Right now, they are cute kids and it’s assumptions about their parents/family/socioeconomic status and people not taking time to learn how to properly pronounce their names. When does that shift occur? The one where you’re no longer the cute kid but a perceived threat to society because of the color of your skin. I wrote all of the above on 4/7/2021, there was no real conclusion and I hadn’t finalized my thoughts so I never posted. This was before Daunte Wright was shot and killed. I still have no real conclusion but I’ll leave you with one more story to consider. I received my first ticket when I was a graduated student at the University of Michigan. I was on my way to my internship at the hospital and rolled through a stop sign. When the officer approached the window I explained I wasn’t sure where my ID was but provided him with my insurance card. He went back to his car and as I was sitting there, I remembered my ID was in my bag in the trunk. I got out of the vehicle, popped my trunk, took my bag out, and approached the officer’s vehicle to explain I found my ID. He issued me a ticket and told me to fully stop next time. That’s privilege. Last week I was texting with some mom friends. A mom-to-be was facing a tough decision and wanted some input as she weighed her options. I really had no experience in the area of question so I replied by saying:
One last thing just to say it and because I don't have any medical advice. This is one of a million decisions you're going to make (and I'm sure you've already made lots!) as a mom. Whatever you decide is what's best and right for you and your family. It's hard when there is no clear cut answers, especially on something like this. We text about mom stuff a lot and although we might do it differently, we are here to support each other in the big and small decisions. Your questions and concern already show how much you care about your baby and when decisions are made from that mindset, you're doing it right. I've received many similar texts over the past week after booking a trip to Florida with the two olders. We leave tomorrow afternoon and I still can't believe I'm leaving my 5 month old for 6 days. At (almost) 5 months, Brayden has started daycare full time, is more content, quick to smile and giggle, and gives some great snuggles. But those first three months of his life? Whoa. Hard. Colic+silent reflux+normal baby fussiness I either didn't experience with my first two or don't remember, had me questioning my abilities as a mom on a regular basis. Not only did I feel like I was failing Brayden, I felt like I was failing Nick and Jade too. They went from receiving all of my time and attention to very little of it. I'm so excited to spend some quality time with them. As I prepare to leave, I'm thankful to be surrounded by family and friends who support me as I face the big and small challenges of motherhood. Austin has assured me Brayden won't remember the next 6 days whereas Nick and Jade will. He rocks infancy and will hold down the fort. My mom told me she took a trip when she had young babies. All my mom friends have been supportive, reminding me there is no wrong decision. At this point, it's me. I'm withholding grace from myself and I've done this countless times throughout my life, even more so in motherhood. I've pumped ALLLLL the milk, set out the clothes, communicated with daycare (not because Austin can't do these things, I'm just a control freak), and spent the weekend snuggling. Brayden is going to be just fine. So tonight I'm reading my own text back to myself, "whatever decision I make is best and right for my family. My concern shows how much I care about Brayden. I'm doing it right," and allowing myself to receive the same grace and encouragement I would give a friend. Also, I need to take a moment, step outside myself, and look to the example of unconditional love Jesus has for me. I wish I would have written it down but earlier this week I read something along the lines of "the amount of unconditional love we allow ourselves to experience from Jesus is the amount we will be able to give to our children." When I allow myself to be consumed by fear, doubt, and guilt...when I wrap my entire identity in how I birth, how I feed, how I sleep train (and the million other choices we face as moms), I deprive myself of the unconditional love God has for me and who he made me to be. If I don't want my kids to miss out on the kind of love, I need to lean into it pretty hard and learn it myself. Moms, t-minus 5 days until Christmas. How are you hanging in there? If you’re anything like me, you’ve decided now would be a good time to declutter/purge every room in your house while simultaneously baking goodies, wrapping all the presents, trying to get a good family Christmas photo, and making sure everyone has a decent festive outfit to wear to parties. It’s maddening and feels extra silly this year as we are only seeing our immediate families.
Over the years, the holiday season has become a high point of anxiety and stress for me. So much so that I’ve started shopping as early as October, priding myself in being done with all the shopping, wrapping, and grocery shopping weeks before Christmas. In my head, I know none of this is the true meaning of Christmas, nor is it what I remember about my magical childhood Christmases. This year we have an infant. One who needs a lot of attention and care. There have been countless times this weekend I’ve had to stop what I was doing to feed Bray, give him some extra love, pump (what I’m doing now) or rock his sweet self for the 10th time before going down for a nap. Sometimes it feels frustrating. During a feed earlier this morning I was watching an Instagram TV by Lindsay’s Letters. Her message was so timely. She suggested we stop doing things 100% all of the time and pointed out more times than not, people aren’t going to notice whether you do something 75% or 100%. She gave the examples of making her own bows and gift tags, piping butter on plates to look fancy for rolls, and contouring makeup before family get togethers. She realized stick on bows work just as well, butter looks just as good in a nice dish (or the tub if you ask me) and she doesn’t look all that different whether she gets ready for 5 minutes or 30. It seems obvious and simple but so so against my achievement-fueled mindset. But it really hit me as I’m holding my 3 month old babe: my presence and full attention is all the presents he needs. He has 0 concept of Christmas. His handful of gifts can be placed in his stocking unwrapped and it literally would not change his Christmas Day one bit. For my olders, they won’t care if all their presents are wrapped in the same paper using packaging tape because I ran out of Scotch or if I wrap them beautifully with different kinds of papers and embellishments. So in order to be the best mom I can be this season, which for me means being more present, I’m trying to give myself the gift of imperfection (shallows hard as I just cringed through gingerbread decorating with my kids and attempted a Christmas photo earlier today). Claiming “recovering perfectionist in the making” for 2021. The things I really love to do I’m going to go 100%. We are going to have great snacks and terrible meals. The most thoughtful gifts without the best packaging. Writing more and proofreading less. A messy house with the true meaning of Christmas resounding in our home, piercing through all of the chaos and hurt of 2020. And probably one attempt at a really great matching pj picture too. Whatever brings you the gifts of this season-peace, joy, good news, go 100. Very soon here the Stones are transitioning from a family of 4 to a family of 5 (6 if you ask the kids because Casey is a member of the family too).
Sleep has been hard to come by and emotions are all over the place. I’m physically so ready. I’m excited to meet this baby and find out who they are. I’m scared for labor and anxious about bringing a newborn into the world during a pandemic. It’s a lot. I’m also feeling that twinge of grief that comes along whenever big life events happen. As I’ve said before, life events after loss are always a mix of joy and grief. Grief first. Growing up, my family was a family of 5. My parents had 3 kids, I had 2 siblings, and we set the table for five people. Then one day in 2002, there was one less plate because we became a family of (earthly) 4 overnight. I’ve been thinking about this a lot as my due date gets closer. What is it going to be like to be a family of 5? For my kids to have two siblings? To be outnumbered as a parent? What if we ever have to transition back to an earthly family of 4? Would I survive it? Also, I so badly want my kids to understand what a gift siblings are and when they don’t, I feel angry and defeated when really they are being very normal siblings who’ve been home with each other nonstop for 6 months. For example, last week Jade really wanted to have a sleepover in Nick’s room. I said yes, Nick was initially all about it, but when it came down to it, Nick changed his mind. He was being 4.5 years old about it and I was losing my patience. Because guess what kid? I had one unforgettable sleepover with my brother on his floor. We stayed up late watching WWE, my brother’s favorite. There was no second sleepover. What if this is the only chance you get to have a sleepover with your sister? *Please note, I’ve been in out of therapy most of my adult life. I don’t actually share these thoughts and feelings with my kids to guilt them into being nicer to each other. It’s just the reality of navigating trauma/triggers in parenting. So there is the dynamic of comparing my life growing up in a family of 5 and now as an adult becoming a family of 5. There is also the dynamic of just missing my brother and people I love as we grow. If my brother were still alive I’m sure he’d be a super fun, cool uncle with a pile of kids himself. He could teach my kids about U of M football and the Mets. I’d have a sibling to bounce parenting stuff off of, get me hand me downs from, and drop our kids off at grandpa and grandma’s and go out as adults with. Nick, I wish you could see me as a mom, your sister as an aunt, and your parents as grandparents. They are truly the best and so much fun and you are missed. Now the joy. The grief is big but so is the joy. God has sustained us through a really difficult season of miscarriage, anxiety about having an additional miscarriage, and then making it through the first trimester only to be welcomed by a global pandemic. He has kept our family safe, healthy, and mostly joy-filled. I’m so thankful. Seriously, praying every day to wake up fever free and deliver this baby as healthy as possible. I’m so ready to meet this rainbow baby. To watch my kids in wonder, to see Jade be a big sister, to learn how to “newborn” with Austin who does so much better with little sleep than I do. I’m so thankful for community, who despite circumstances have made me feel supported and reminded me I’m not alone. Co-workers turned friends who threw a little deck baby sprinkle. For new life, baby snuggles. Hope in trying times. So much joy and anticipation. Baby Stone, now that I’ve processed some of these feelings, feel free to make your exit. You are loved, prayed for, wanted, and chosen by God to make us “Stones Party of 5.” We are about 2.5 weeks away from welcoming Baby Stone. I feel like I'm about to burst and have never felt more out of shape in my entire life.
I stopped high intensity workouts the month we knew we could start trying again. I have always wanted a "fit pregnancy" but having a miscarriage created all sorts of lies and mind games including "if I workout and miscarry, it will be my fault." Logically I knew this wasn't true, but emotionally I couldn't see past it. So did what I could by walking or swimming but most of the time I counted keeping up with Nick and Jade during an unexpected summer at home as my workout. This change of physically activity and pace has highlighted a few things for me about my mindset and my body. First, I've realized I was okay with a bigger body pre-pregnancy as long as it was accomplishing. I was doing boot camp classes 3+ times a week and logging miles. I tested my physical limits all the time and even ran a marathon. I was quick to embrace my body because it was doing things most people weren't and because I felt strong. "Strong isn't a size" was my mantra and I was really proud of myself. Accomplishments, strength, and competition fuel my "deserving of value" tank. I can't do boot camp right now or in the near future. Most people could run (okay walk) circles around me. Thinking about getting back into running postpartum and having to hit pavement for one minute terrifies me. These realizations have forced me to shift into a new place of self-acceptance. My body is worthy of love regardless of what physical state it's in and what it can accomplish. Also, the scale is so dumb. I've known this forever and yet I still struggle. I lost a good chunk of weight in college and then started to put it back on a few years later. Weighing myself became a daily thing and a 2lb fluctuation could be a day ruiner. I knew it was bad when I decided to give up weighing myself for lent a few years ago. This pregnancy, I was pretty nervous about my weight as I started higher than any other pregnancy. Somehow, this is the least "scale focused" I've ever been in my adult life. Sure, I'm getting weighed weekly at the doctor at this point, so I know what I weigh, but prior to that I would rarely weigh myself between appointments. I eat when I'm hungry and move when I want to/am able to. I'm shocked how much less I think about food, weight, losing weight, being active. Also pretty great to not have your entire morning ruined by 3 numbers. It's been such a healthy shift and I hope it sticks. Last, I can be genuinely happy in a bigger body. Today, we hiked 2.5 miles and had Lake Michigan to ourselves. Without exaggeration, I'm more tired than I've ever been after completing a half marathon. My body has changed. It can't run half marathons right now and barely made it back to the car. Austin snapped a few pictures of me in the lake with the kids and I couldn't help but notice my reaction when I saw the picture. Happy. Fulfilled. Real. Carefree. Equally as happy, fulfilled, and real as peak physically fit photos. You can be big and happy, you can be small and happy. My body is about to undergo some big changes in the next few weeks. I'm nervous and excited for labor, it's wild. Eventually, I'll get the all clear to start work out again and I know I will because testing my physical limits improves my mental health so much. Inevitably my body will get smaller because it's birthing a human who's estimated to be 6lbs 7oz already. And it will not be any more or less worthy than it is right now as I type this. My body will change. Yours likely will too. Some years it will be fit, strong, firm, and society will cheer you on as if you've done the most important thing you could possibly do with your life. Why do we celebrate bodies becoming smaller so dang much? Other years, it will be bigger, slower, jigglier, and society will wonder what happened. They will talk about it, they may even suggest products to get your body back, slim down, shed lbs, you name it. All in the name of "lifestyle" and "health." You don't need any of those things. Love your body right now. Take care of it however that best looks for you. Don't forget minds are parts of bodies too. The work they do is some of the most important. Last week, Jade decided she wanted to learn how to swim without a puddle jumper. She practiced for two days and on Friday, she was jumping in the pool and swimming to the ladder by herself. She has been non-stop since and we are so proud of her determination. She doesn't even turn 3 for 2 months! We have vocalized how brave and fearless she is over and over.
As Jade was learning how to swim, Nick was watching from afar. Although he never said anything, you could tell he was self-conscious about Jade swimming independently when he was still swimming with a puddle jumper. I encouraged him to try, assured him I would be right there and would not let him sink, and said how brave he would be to try. He said no, that he wasn't ready and was still scared. Honestly, I was bummed and continued to try to use bravery and courage as a motivator. Until I knew better... Throughout all of this swimming business, I was reading Untamed by Glennon Doyle. She wrote an entire chapter on bravery and it stopped me in my tracks and has me evaluating my approach to parenting and well, life. Glennon writes: "I don't think brave means what we've been saying it means. We tell our children that brave means feeling afraid and it doing it anyway, but is this the definition we want them to carry as they grow older? When she is seventeen, headed out in a car driven by her teenage buddy, saying she's going to the movies but actually going to that kegger down the street, imagine calling to her, "Bye babe! Be brave tonight! What I mean by that is: If you're in a scary situation, and you feel afraid to do what your friends are encouraging you to do-I want you to ignore that fear and do it anyway! Just plow right through that gut instinct of yours!" No that is not the understanding of brave I want my children to have. I do not want my children to become people who abandon themselves to please the crowd. Brave do not mean feeling afraid and doing it anyway. Brave means living from the inside out. Brave means, in every uncertain moment, turning inward, feeling for the Knowing, and speaking it loud. Since the Knowing is specific, personal, and ever changing, so is brave. Whether you are brave or not cannot be judged by people on the outside. Sometimes being brave requires letting the crowd think you are a coward. Sometimes being brave means letting everyone down but yourself." Whoa right? Was Jade brave in learning how to swim? Absolutely. She will probably always be our "go for it" gal. Jade is our fierce, determined, strong-willed, hilarious child. She will see outcome vs. risk and be a loud leader. Is Nick equally as brave for voicing he's scared and not quite ready yet? Absolutely. He will probably always be our analyzer. Nick is our sensitive, empathetic, critical-thinking, and serious child. He will see risks, take his time, and be a quiet leader. Both are loved. Both are brave. If you follow me on social media, you know Nick is swimming independently now too. Weirdly, when the pressure was off and no one else was at the pool other than me, he went for it. I would still be writing this even if Nick wasn't swimming because this isn't our first time trying to get our kids to do things in the name of bravery. We've tried talking about no training wheels, getting them to wake surf, etc. Those things aren't happening, were never tried, and our kids are still brave. I hope in the upcoming weeks and years, I can rewrite the script on bravery for my kids. You don't want to try something that makes you scared or you're not ready for? That is so brave and I'm proud of you for listening to your instincts. Because one day it won't be about jumping into a pool without a puddle jumper, it will be going further than you're ready to in a relationship, drinking more than you know you want to, and I'm scared to think what else. This message on bravery doesn't stop with my kids. It's for me too. I can easily recall times where I plowed through my gut instincts in the name of bravery. It never felt good or right. It still doesn't but I'm learning to turn inward. In the past four months we've had to make some pretty brave decisions that probably don't look very brave or wise to others. For example, staying home, saying no to things, and believing COVID-19 is real and should be taken seriously looks cowardly to some. It's brave, personal and specific to us. We've let some people down in doing what's best for our family and that can be really hard, and still right. You have your brave too, and sometimes it means being the odd person out, being misunderstood, judged, and shamed. But living into your brave, is living with integrity and confidence. It's trusting yourself and experiencing peace. Be brave. |
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Hi! I'm Haley. Archives
May 2019
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