I've been robbed of hope. (But not of friends.)

(Today, it was 70 degrees here, so I decided to skip my at-school workout and go home for a walk instead. Since it has been suggested that I work on being present in the moment instead of constantly trying to plan for the future, my very simple goal was to be present in my walk.)


As I went down the road to the lake and began the loop, I started to think about how I used to love walking this path and daydreaming about the day I'd be pushing a stroller (or strolling next to Jeff as he pushed a stroller). Today, though, those daydreams just weren't possible. After a miscarriage, many women express that they've been robbed of the joy of a carefree, joyful pregnancy. I didn't feel that way; I'm enough of a nervous Nelly that my pregnancy was always destined to be fraught with anxiety as even this past one was. Up until now, I couldn't understand the idea of my miscarriage robbing me of anything other than my little Blueberry, but, today while walking, I realized something new: I've been robbed of hope in the future. A month ago, I believed getting pregnant and having a little one to bring home was possible--I had nothing to prove me wrong. Now, I do.


One of my goals in being present in the moment is to acknowledge the feelings that wash over me and live with them for a bit. As I tried to do that on my walk, as I tried desperately not to distract myself with coming up with new things to be hopeful about, as I tried to just let myself hurt, I became more and more sad. Rounding the corner to the straight part of the path that overlooks my favorite house on the lake, I tried to focus on the German Shepherd in front of me, carrying an unwieldy stick. The runner coming from the opposite direction smiled at the dog, too, and then I realized I knew that smile. That was M.


M. is one of my closest friends--she lives just a mile from us and has been supporting me constantly in recent weeks. She went through a significant life upheaval in the last year herself, so she really gets where I am. And while M. is at our house at least two nights a week and we text almost daily, we've never discussed the fact that she sometimes runs the exact same loop that I walk. (God clearly had a plan for my walk today.) And so, as my thoughts plunged to a point of hopelessness, I found M. standing in front of me, laughing in joy at discovering me, opening her arms to envelop me in a hug. When she realized I wasn't doing well, she immediately turned around and started to walk beside me in my direction, slowing her pace to match mine, sacrificing her own workout, encouraging me to talk, letting me quietly cry. She just loved me--in that moment, in that place of darkness, in that absence of joy.


Hope is the belief in things yet to come. Yes, I've been robbed of one little person who I loved so much and desired so desperately to hold in my arms this summer. But I haven't been robbed of people who are present already today. I trust that if I can just appreciate this moment, hope in tomorrow will return when I least expect it.