The breaths we take

In March of 2020, as a planet, we took a collective breath. 

It wasn't a good one, it was wrapped and coiled in fear, in pain, in heartache. It had a cloud of death that hovered over it like a great unknown. For some of us it started halfway around the world, an inhale that reached out for us. For others it was in our backyard, a breath we weren't supposed to breathe in. It was COVID-19. A pandemic that 2 years later we are too intimately familiar with its many iterations, the breaths it's held, labored, taken or released. We made up a word for its inevitable end . . . endemic means reset, reboot, re-begin or reawaken. Right? 

March of 2020 was all of these things for me but it was also the year, month and day that my daughter was born. 2020 was a lot of hard things that I am just now beginning to unpack. It was hard, hurtful, hopeful and healing. It was her year. And for all of you that it held only bad - i'm sorry. We can talk about that, relive that, find redemption in that together. For myself, I am going to begin to untangle the hurt, the moments stolen, the healing I didn't take the time to receive and the joys I didn't share enough. But I keep coming back to this thought. It was HER year. Eleonore Esther Doyle came into the world knowing only good and love. She found peace in the stillness, intimacy in the solitude and games in the masks. It was HER year. It was a good year. 

I want to begin to unbury the parts i've held onto that made the year (now years) not so good. I won't pretend they didn't happen. I won't not relive them or tell their truth. But I will allow them new breath, new freedom to release the good with the bad. To heal. To love. To appreciate. 

For the time you lost, I'm sorry. For those you've lost, I'm sorry. For the lives you didn't get to live, the moments you didn't get to take, the isolation that was more strangling than the mask, I'm sorry. For the fear that took ahold of us and has its roots around us like a hand that won't just let up, I'm sorry. For the joys I didn't celebrate with you, the ones repressed, hidden or diverted, I'm sorry. 

When I look back to the weeks leading up to the pandemic and Eleonore's (Leo's) birth, there was a lot of lead-up but not a lot of fear. Mid-March, I was sent to work from home until my maternity leave began. There was fear around me and most certainly around the globe. News flooded from China and I hurt for those lost, but distance was my ally. I felt grounded and lacked any fear. We had record heat that early spring, and each day I got to walk my neighborhood soaking in 80 degrees and holding the hand of my love. We worked, we spent time with friends, we prepped the baby room. We waited. It felt like a deep breath in. 

For Patrick and I, it was a short wait. The exhale came too quick. On the second week, amidst a busy work day and squeezing in my 37 week check up, we found ourselves in the Childbirth Center Triage instead. The story of how we got there and Eleonore's beautifully hard and unforeseen entrance into the world is a story of its own right. One I hope to put into words soon, and haven't been ready to these past 2 years. But something happened when my daughter was born, I gave birth too, to fear. I wish I didn't have to put those two thoughts together. That it wasn't at all connected to her or so intricately intertwined with my motherhood. But there is a brokenness that comes with the postpartum process, a way hormones whittle you down to your most basic self and make you realize the most brittle parts of yourself. I have never known refinement, or dependence, or strength like I found in that season and it was heart-wrenchingly and painfully, well . . .beautiful. 

But fear was there too. When I look back at those early days of parenthood, I can acknowledge that who I am today would make different choices, but regret I do not know. That is a good barometer for me, to be willing to grow and change and make new decisions but most importantly to be resolved in the ones already made. When Eleonore was born she was healthy and beautiful and small and cold. Amidst recovery in the hospital where we were both poked and prodded by dozens of strangers we made the difficult decision to go home and isolate. Those few strangers that doctored and recovered us would be the only few, besides us, who held Leo the first weeks of her life. I cried when I told my mother. Over those weeks Patrick and I checked in with each other regularly, repeating the same conversations and making sure we came to the same conclusions. Making sure our decisions weren't made in fear. I am so proud of us for those talks, those choices and that resolve. But fear was there. She did exist, like a small weed thats root system is wreaking havoc beneath the surface. 

It's been a long 2 years hasn't it? The inhales and exhales have been deep . . . and shallow, reviving . . . and painful, refining . . .and crippling. The breaths we held collectively and the full breaths we took in solitude, did something for us that we haven't fully come to realize. They were sometimes broken up by loss, and we must acknowledge that too. For what you've lost or has been taken from you these long days, months and now years - I am sorry. For what you gained, I applaud your growth, your strength, your resolve. For some of us our circles were knitted together more closely, for others they just got smaller. Some of us made career choices and life prioritizations. For some of us, the sure path got broken up in a new climate, certainties became uncertain or uncertainties vanished. Some of us were formed and knew only this new space we proudly occupy (I'm looking at you kid).  

Our circle lessened, I admit. To each one who hasn't met my Leo or hasn't had the opportunity to know her well - I miss you. For those who have, but it was delayed, I am truly sorry for the early snuggles that you missed. The waiting that we forced upon us all, the moments past. And yet I must thank you too. I thank you for the space given, the grace shown, the patience extended. Because something happened in this season that I would not have otherwise chosen for myself, for the cost it had to you. My family of three was knitted and formed in deep breaths of breadth and depth and space. We took up space we otherwise wouldn't have. We took time we otherwise wouldn't have known. We grew in tears and laughter and in the hard work of looking our fear in the face every single day. And in finally the work I am coming to now. Of acknowledging the deeper fear, the fear that was always there but simply hadn't been birthed. Of beginning root by root to pull her up one strand at a time. Until she testifies of grace and good and hope instead. She has no place here anymore, it's time to let her go.

My hope for you today is this. I hope that you found something in this season. I hope you have pride in who you are, in what you've accomplished, in what you have been created for. I hope you found yourself, who you really are. I hope you birthed something good. And for what fear stripped away from you, I hope you can forgive. I hope that what was lost was worthy of letting go of or letting free and that what was stolen may be returned to you. I hope that the breaths are deeper. I hope the roots of fear are being pulled up one by one in the most redemptive and refining way. I hope the scars they leave run only as deep as you can share and testify of. 

May the joy of my Eleonore Esther Doyle be a testimony of the refining grace of this season. Thank you my sweet girl.

With all our love ❤️