Letter from Kate Rooney

Dear friends,

A clear second line of ink confirmed what I already knew thanks to my hyper-vigilant charting. I felt excitement. I had been eagerly awaiting the chance to start our family for months now. As long as I can remember I have always dreamed of having children. I rejoiced as my friends began having their own babies and looked forward to the day when I too would hold my own. A recent fertility scare had turned the physical motherhood that formerly seemed inevitable into nothing but a hopeful possibility, so the sight of that plus sign brought so much joy and fulfillment to my heart.

But I was shocked at how, in the midst of this joyful excitement, I also felt a keen sense of resignation. Up until now I had only hoped for a baby, now I had one. This new reality was going to bring changes and sacrifices. Certain hopes and dreams felt swept off the table. That move to the city with a swanky apartment upgrade might have to fold to a sensible suburban duplex. This no longer seemed like a good month to purchase my long-dreamed-for new car. Maybe this was no longer the perfect time to go after that new job. My roaring 20’s felt over, soon to be replaced with nap schedules and playgroups.

There were other sacrifices I dreaded too. I resented the idea of surrendering my sleep, my health, my habits – my body. Everything that had felt like mine and mine alone was now shared.

Don’t get me wrong, I was excited to be a mother. But I was mourning the life I felt I was torn away from in the process. I struggled to accept this sense of mourning as a natural reaction to the surrender motherhood requires and instead hated myself for my own cowardice, my unwillingness to give my own fiat in this moment of truth. I felt very un-surrendered.

I was alone when it started.

Hours passed and I found myself sitting on an ER bed with just a curtain keeping me from the doctor and nurses who were discussing my pregnancy – my baby – in the past tense. I was still alone. My husband was on a plane, not even reachable by text. My family was 600 miles away. I racked my brain, but none of my work, church, or local acquaintances seemed close enough to be suited to the task of sitting with me in that curtained room. I was trying to pray, but it didn’t feel like surrendered prayer. In that moment, I don’t think I could have ever said: “thy will be done.”

I grew numb as the nurses shuffled in and started talking about hCG levels and urinalysis. They posited that my blood type might have had something to do with it. They gave me a shot and read some statistics. They extended apologies upon seeing my tears but reassured me I could try again next cycle if I felt up to it.

That evening I reunited with my husband. The next few days passed slowly but in a blur. I was numb and angry. I felt that my baby had been stolen away from me and I secretly wondered if my fears had made me deserve it. I hadn’t felt ready to surrender, so maybe I was being forced to.

After three days had passed I received a call at work from the hospital. The voice on the other end was apologetic, but not about my loss. There was an explanation about misread tests. I was asked to come in for more bloodwork. Two more days of tests dragged by before we were given a final diagnosis: the baby was fine and the pregnancy was proceeding normally.

Friends, I wish I could tell you that I became a surrendered mother after that. Instead, I have to admit that I became an incredibly anxious pregnant woman. I agonized over what foods and activities to avoid and felt that every bodily incident was a symptom of miscarriage. I walked around in a near- constant state of panic and would wake up at night crawling with anxiety.

Several weeks later I was confiding in a trusted counselor. I asked for some sort of tool to help me just calm down. He didn’t give me the visualization or breathing exercises that I was expecting. Instead, he challenged me to see this baby, my son, as a gift – a loved gift.

As I tried to implement this new way of thinking, I found myself approaching my pregnancy from a new angle. I could enjoy a nausea-free morning without wondering what it meant. I could hear my son’s heartbeat and not analyze the rate. I could see him squirming around during an ultrasound and simply delight in the miracle in front of me.

I used to believe that my identity as a woman lay in my ability to do the right things at the right time with the right disposition. I didn’t give myself the freedom to just be a mother. Instead, I judged myself harshly for the resignation I felt, and later for the anxieties that gripped me. But my identity as a woman has nothing to do with performance. I am womanly because I am a woman, not because I meet mine or someone else’s expectations for femininity. My femininity is a gift, not a checklist.

As I’ve striven to implement this concept of gift to my life, it has allowed me to practice simply embracing life without expectation. I can be thankful for the freedom I experienced with my husband prior to pregnancy without being angry that things are changing. I can love my son in the present moment without panicking and grasping over exactly how long I will have the joy of loving him. I am not more of a woman because I am a mother. I’m not less of a woman because the transition to motherhood seemed frightening and difficult. My womanhood doesn’t have to be tied up in what I accomplish or how I feel.

I used to be upset at myself because I didn’t feel properly surrendered, but I am coming to realize that being surrendered doesn’t have to mean accepting every possible tragedy in advance. Being surrendered doesn’t have to mean having a nonchalant attitude towards the things you love and care about. I don’t need to stake my identity in my ability to surrender “correctly.” Surrender can simply mean loosening my grip on expectation. Surrender can mean practicing gratitude in the moment.

Surrender happens day by day.

Friends, I hope this letter gives you some measure of peace. I hope you give yourselves the freedom to simply surrender each day and enjoy the gifts in your own life. And I hope you extend grace to yourself if you stumble because that’s a gift too.

Pax,

Kate