How Did We Get Here? Pt. 2
Part Two: The Chaos We Called Progress
Joy That Turned to Fear
The pain was intense, and the uncertainty was overwhelming. In the ER, four different doctors told me that my pregnancy was ectopic and that immediate intervention was necessary. It was supposed to be a joyous surprise for my husband, a moment of celebration, and instead, I was facing the fear of something being terribly wrong.
In that whirlwind of emotions, I turned to continuous prayer, pleading with God to fix this, to help me, to make it right. It wasn’t until the night before the next ultrasound, as I lay awake in prayer, that an overwhelming sense of calm washed over me. In that moment, something changed inside of me, and I knew everything was going to be okay. For the first time in days, I finally slept.
The Miracle and the Mess That Followed
When I went in for the ultrasound, I still saw that dreaded ring of fire, and the tears flowed again. But then the doctor, with a calm and even slightly humorous tone, pointed out that the ring was simply showing which ovary I had ovulated from. And there, on the screen, was our baby, safe and sound. God provided a way for everything to make sense, and it was truly a miracle.
Bringing our daughter into the world was a miracle—the first of three—but the journey that followed wasn’t easy. The pregnancy itself had been rough, and once our daughter was born, I faced a whole new set of challenges. I was determined to breastfeed, believing it was the best way to nurture my baby, but my body had other plans. Despite all my efforts—pumping, supplements, endless consultations with lactation specialists—my milk supply just wouldn’t cooperate. It felt like another blow—like my body was betraying me in a moment I so desperately wanted to get right.
The stress of it all, combined with the demands of new motherhood, left me exhausted and depleted. But even in those moments of doubt and difficulty, I held on to the belief that there was a greater plan, that every challenge was shaping me into the mother I was meant to be.
More Than Tired, More Than Lost
Through the births of our first, second, and third child, there was a gradual slipping away of me—something I wasn’t entirely conscious of at the time. We kept going, and I poured myself into my family, but it didn’t fully hit me that I wasn’t taking care of myself. My body was depleted from having three children in four years, and that lack of nourishment impacted everything—my energy, my hormones, my ability to fully function and connect the dots. We lacked the kind of support that should be there—the community, the village that society once provided. It often felt like we were on an island, carrying the weight on our own. And in that isolation, I found myself slipping further into a shell of the person I once was and the person I had always dreamed of becoming.
It wasn’t until after our third child that I reached a breaking point—a moment of darkness I never expected. I never lost sight of my love for my children, but I knew something had to change. I needed to remember who I was beneath the roles, the routines, and the exhaustion. I wasn’t feeling like myself anymore, and for the first time, I couldn’t ignore it.
And in an instant, time stood still. I could no longer keep pushing through. The slow unraveling became impossible to ignore. It was the moment everything cracked open—and the long, slow journey back to finding myself began.