Worry’s undue suffering

A big thanks to all who have commented on these re-posts. I have to admit, rereading them, and your comments, has been a salve on my currently troubled soul. This turned out to be a perfect week to return to these teachings. I will definitely bring Mindful Mondays back into the rotation once this week is over. 

I’m also happy to report that I’ve been doing good work on my book. I can’t wait for all of you to see some of what I’ve done at the end of the month! 

I am a worrier. Feeling overwhelmed by the uncertainty of life was one of the reasons I started looking into Buddhism. I wanted to find a way to to accept that which seemed unacceptable – the inevitable pain and suffering of life.

I’ve slowly and thoughtfully been reading Buddhism for Mothers by Sarah Napthali. I really love the book and I don’t want to speed through, lest I rush past any of the thoughtful lessons that I know apply to me and my anxious, fear driven existence.

The night after I wrote my post about my Acceptance of Suffering I began the chapter in the book about worry. It seemed perfectly timed. Of course worry is a huge part of every parent’s life. We worry about the wellbeing of our children, if they are safe, healthy, happy and fulfilled. We worry that they are eating the right foods, being exposed to developmentally appropriate stimulation, thriving both mentally and physically. We fear they won’t be accepted for who they are or won’t be included by their peers. There are literally countless reasons we can worry for our children. The liberating thing is, while we will inevitably worry, we can choose when, how much and about what. We can also choose how to shoulder the burden of our worry.

As I read the chapter on worry, I came across the most amazing quote. I mentioned it in my 300th blog post as one of my top mantras of the year. This placement in the “Top Three” is telling, as I only came across it in the final days of 2010. But it seemed to speak to me on such a deep, personal level – it was like it was meant just for me. Thank you Mark Twain for saying this.

‘My life has been filled with terrible misfortunes . . . most of which never happened.’

This quote spoke to me because my life has also been filled with terrible misfortunes and the majority of them have been of the not-actually-having-happened variety. Reading this quote I was suddenly, violently, aware of the fact that I could chose whether or not my life was spent lamenting the tragedies that had not yet occurred or appreciating the present moment despite the great uncertainty of the future.

After having my daughter I realized that my twenties had been all but overrun by the tragedies I expected would befall me. I had been so worried about experiencing infertility and pregnancy/infant loss that somewhere, deep inside, I was wounded by those tragedies, even though they had never taken place. The weight of the anxiety surrounding whether or not I would become a mother had become so all consuming, so smothering, that I could hardly accept its fantastical foundation. I had created tragedy in my life where there was none. How tragic is that?

For some reason this quote told me something I already knew in a way that made me actually understand it. If you live your life always fearing future tragedy, it will be as if you’ve lived through the very tragedies you want so desperately to avoid. You are basically condemning yourself to the pain you’re so scared of. Only by accepting the possibility of it and letting it go can you truly be free.

I used to read blogs about loss and feel soul wrenching sorrow for the women whose lives had been devastated by terrible misfortune. I felt such sadness for them as I pondered how horrible it would be if those things happened to me. My compassion wasn’t completely selfish, as I believe we do have to imagine how a person’s loss would affect us if we can ever honestly consider their pain. But the lingering sadness and desolation, that was me reflecting their loss onto my own life. That was me nourishing my worry and fear. That was me creating tragedy where there was none, at least not for me. Then, after feeling that desperate pain, I began to writhe against the unfairness with bitter disgust. I would become so angry at the world for what it could do to some but not to others. I couldn’t stomach the arbitrariness of it all. I couldn’t stand that I’d never know my own fate before it befell me.

Now I feel I can hear about other’s suffering without possessing it. I can (and do) put myself in their place and feel their pain, if only for an instant, but now I do this out of love and compassion, and not out of fear. I read their stories so I can feel empathy towards them and send them loving kindness. I abide their pain so I can honor it.

Buddha taught that the mind is everything; what you think you become. In the same way, tragedies you imagine can all but become a reality, for if we suffer their possibility surely they can hurt us with the same strength as their realization would. There is enough suffering in life, we don’t need to create it unduly. And if we do succumb to the fear of uncertainty, we have no one to blame for our suffering but ourselves.

Time Warp Tuesday: My Favorite Post

When Kathy over at Four of a Kind introduced this week’s Time Warp Tuesday theme (all time favorite post – in honor of Mel’s 2011 Creme de la Creme) I immediately knew which post I’d be reflecting on. There really is no doubt in my mind which post I am most proud of, and there are many reasons why I want to revisit it.

Many of you probably read my favorite post. It got the most page views of any piece I’ve ever written. It also inspired the most comments. Even today, over five months since I posted it, I still get comments on that post. People still link to it. It is the post that touched more people than any other post I’ve ever written. It’s my NIAW Bust a Myth piece.

National Infertility Awareness Week’s Bust a Myth I wrote a piece called Miscarriages are Real Losses. Even before I published the post I was very proud of it. I wrote it as a both a declaration that miscarriages are real losses and should be validated as such and as a revisiting of my own ectopic pregnancy. I spent a lot of time combing the three journals I filled in the months after my loss, selecting excerpts that I felt supported my points. The final product ended up being quite powerful and seemed to strike a cord with others who suffered similar losses.

Two years ago I started writing to find my own voice and use it to reach out to others. I feel this post achieves both those goals more successfully than any other post. The comments alone make this post my absolute favorite. No post I’ve written has reached more people and been received more positively.

Looking back on this post, I still believe very strongly in its message: that miscarriages are real and significant losses. I’m certain I will continue to walk through life sharing my story and supporting others who’ve experienced similar heartbreak. While I know that my lone voice can never shatter the taboo surrounding miscarriages, I hope that sharing my story might educate at least a few people who will take a newfound understanding with them into the world, validating the grief of their sister, friend or colleague. Maybe, just maybe, the ripple effect of my small pebble can touch enough people to make a true difference. If my experience makes even one woman feel less alone in her grief, it is worth sharing.

When I first started this blog, and even when I wrote my NIAW piece, I felt an urge, a need, to share the story of my loss. Putting it out there was a necessary part of my healing, for better or worse. Now, almost 2.5 years later, I am no longer compelled to share my story with everyone. I no longer feel it has a place in every conversation I have about family planning, pregnancy, or my life. I guess that is part of healing and moving past that painful time. I guess that is part of moving forward. It’s also a part of distance and perspective and, most importantly, the good fortune I’ve enjoyed since my ectopic; I know my daughter’s presence in my life has helped heal the wounds of my miscarriage more than time or perspective ever could.

My miscarriage post will always hold a special place in my heart. Not only is it a call for others to recognize and validate the grief of those who lose pregnancies, but it’s also, and perhaps more importantly, a record of my own heartbreak. Looking back on that loss, after the healing affects of time and a successful pregnancy, it’s hard for even me to remember how much I suffered. Of course I will always be cognizant of how difficult it was, but that recognition is different from the raw and aching sentiments recorded in the weeks and months after it happened. Looking back on my loss through the dulling, mottled lens of time I can’t bring the grief into focus; this post provides a snapshot of the anguish I felt, preserving it forever.

I believe that caliber of heartbreak deserves to be honored for what it really was, not how might be remembered. I believe that kind of loss needs to be appreciated for how devastating it can be. That is why I wrote that post and that is why I revisit it today.

Big Girls Don’t Cry

Before I start I wanted to let everyone who commented on the last two posts to know I responded. I might not be able to continue responding to comments that way, as time for blogging will be very scarce once I start grading papers every night. But for now I’m trying to keep it up when I can.

And now, for the post!

This weekend we spent a lot if time trying to convince Isa of what she did and didn’t want to do, expecting more from her than she was able to give because we hoped to see friends and family during our short time in Los Angeles. Not surprising she spent a lot of the weekend upset and after two days we were frustrated, run down and guilt ridden. Needless to say we will not be taking any more trips in the foreseeable future.

At one point Isa was screaming in my arms and as I walked with her I chided, “Nobody wants to hear your crying.” The minute I’d said it I stopped myself, realizing the weight of my words. For the first time in my life I’d communicated to my daughter that her feelings weren’t always important, that she should think of others’ comfort before expressing herself.

I vowed right then and there never to do that again.

The problem is I’m not so sure what I am going to tell her. Obviously we do expect children to control their emotions at some point. A prostrate child rolling in her own snot on the supermarket floor, devastated that her mother won’t buy her Fruit Loops would be judged by everyone around, as would that girl’s mother. People are expected to build filters, people are encouraged to at least temper their most negative (and even positive) emotions, if not hide them completely. As a society we have expectations of human behavior and very few are exempt.

So how do I teach my daughter that her feelings are valid and important when the message she will surely get is, “nobody wants to see you cry”?

Pondering this conundrum this weekend I couldn’t help but see a common thread between what I had said to my daughter and what some mean and spiteful people had expressed in the comment section of some posts. The posts were about the now infamous (in our community at least) Facebook meme that was intended (unfathomably) to encourage breast cancer awareness by cryptically declaring you were, say, 22 weeks and craving fudge. Not surprisingly the meme was reviled by many in the infertility community; we were not only baffled by the meme’s complete failure to incite breast cancer awareness, but also hurt that it did so while subjecting us to dozens of “vague pregnancy announcements” that we may or may not have realized were disingenuous. Somehow people not of this community ended up reading the posts and a few reacted very negatively.

The general attitude of the negative commenters was, “you bitter infertiles need to get over yourselves and stop ruining everyone’s fun.” Some were so wretchedly hurtful as to declare the poster infertile because of her negative attitude and, on top of that, unfit to be a parent.

Now I realize these are very extreme cases of the truly awful coming out in people, and while, as Mel discussed so eloquently in her last post, the anonymity of the internet seems to promote (provoke?) that kind of behavior in some, one could argue that this distilled vitriole in the face of other’s suffering is representative of the way most people feel, at least to some degree. I would venture to guess that the majority of people would rather other people’s suffering not sully their day. Most people would appreciate us keeping it under wraps.

Of course those of us in the IF/loss community know this more poignantly that most. Why else would we band together so fiercely through our blogs and other social media? We know that no one else wants to hear about our pain, our heartache is rarely met with empathy or compassion. We have been disappointed again and again when close friends and even family ignore our loss. We have been asked, repeatedly, to keep our sadness to ourselves, to put on a brave face, to suck it up, to get a life.

Big girls don’t cry, after all.

That’s really it, isn’t it? Big girls don’t cry. Not only are we expected not to cry, not only is it assumed we will bury our feelings so deep that they might never flash across our faces, but it is also presumed that we will conjure elation and joy for those around us, no matter how false and forced it might feel.

What is it about our society that we expect others to share in our joy but not our miseries? Why do we require a one way street of shared emotion? Why is “fine” the only acceptable answer to “how are you doing?”  Why even ask that question at all? It’s as if we think tragedy and sadness are catching. It’s as if we worry we might infect others with our greif, or more terrifyingly, be infected by the suffering of others.

Our culture has created complex and dependable systems to side step the discomfort of others. We have euphemisms to avoid the words and cards and flowers to deflect the eyes. We expect people who have suffered even the most unspeakable losses to pick themselves up, dust themselves off and get on with their lives. Evidently grief has an expiration date and tear are simply not tolerated.

So what do I tell my daughter when she asks me if big girls cry? How do I explain to her that they probably don’t but they should? How do I respect the intense emotions she feels in her toddlerhood while helping her gain control over those emotions? How can I be supportive but not overindulgent? So many fine lines to walk. So many opportunities to misstep. I only hope I can guide her in the right direction, towards a place where she doesn’t feel shame when she sheds a tear, or twenty.

Thoughtful Thursdays: How Being a Mother Makes Me Want to Be Better

Now this particular topic, that of how motherhood makes women who are called “mom” want to be better people for those small, sticky humans who call them by that name, is a well-visited one, to say the least. One might even call it tired, trite or, yes, I will go there, tawdry. Do I think that I can bring something new and interesting to this topic? Definitely not. Am I going to write about it anyway, you betcha.

The thing is, there probably is one thing in this post that will surprise you. You can let me know when you’re finished.

Of course my daughter makes me want to be a better person. I want to give her only the best and frankly I am not the best. I have many flaws, as everyone does. I don’t expect to rid myself of them just because I have been blessed with a daughter. But I do intend to put my best foot forward in my attempt to do so.

Here are just some of the ways I want to be a better person for my baby girl.

I want to be mindful so I won’t miss the tender moments my daughter offers up to me.

I want to be patient so I can approach my daughter gently and with care.

I want to be accepting so that my daughter will always feel cherished for who she is.

I want to be brave so that my daughter will not be held captive by my fear.

I want to be honest so that my daughter will always know the truth.

I want to be caring so that my daughter will treat herself, and others, with care.

And the other thing I want to do, well that is the unusual one.

I want to speak without making my weird sound so my daughter doesn’t grow up to make it to.

I mentioned my “chortle” when I stood Atop the Podium. It’s a strange sound I make after some sentences; it sounds like I’m simultaneously clearing my throat and stifling a laugh. I hardly notice it but others do. I make it more when I’m nervous so it happens around others more than at home. My doctor believed it had to do with my stuffy sinuses and that allergy shots would clear it up. But two years of allergy shots later, I’m still making it, despite an improvement in other symptoms. It’s obviously a habitual thing that I just need to be aware of every time I speak.

This sound has been a major source of embarrassment for me. I started doing it when I was in grade school and was made fun of for it frequently. I hated the way it sounded when I heard recordings of myself and felt horrible when people asked me about it.

Now-a-days people don’t bring it up much, but when they do it still stings. Several years ago at the wedding of my mother’s friend’s daughter, I went up to congratulate the bride and the first (and only thing) she said to me (actually she said it about me to her sister) was, Oh my god, you still make that sound when you talk! Why do you do that?! I was so upset and angry that I turned around, said goodbye to my parents and their friends and kept on walking right to my car, tears streaming down my face.

Earlier this week a student in one of my smaller ELD classes asked me about “the sound”. He wasn’t being malicious and my feelings weren’t hurt by it. Actually, I’ve always been surprised my students didn’t bring it up more. I don’t think I make it as much with my students, as I’m speaking more deliberately in front of the class. And maybe, just maybe, I have students that are kind enough not to bring it up. But this students brought it up, and made me aware of it all over again.

And there it was again, my student reminding me. I make this sound and when people bring it up it’s very painful for me. So painful that today, as I spoke to the speech therapist at my school about it (I approached her seeking advice) I was fighting back tears. Tonight, when I asked Mi.Vida to make a hand gesture at me when he hears me make it, my eyes welled up.

I’ve always wanted to get rid of this stupid sound but I never really tried. I don’t think I knew why until now. This sound is associated with a lot of psychic pain for me. It is an incredibly upsetting piece of who I am and has been the source of much internal and external torment. For that reason I have not tried to stop making my sound – because being reminded of it hurts and I think, deep down inside, I’m terrified I can’t kick it.

The thing is, now I have to kick it. I have to stop making my sound so my daughter won’t make it. My sister “picked it up” when she was young, and my cousin even said she started doing it once after I’d stayed with her for the summer. I have reason to believe it’s “contagious” and I can’t imagine my daughter won’t start making it when she hears it constantly. I mean I want her to learn Spanish from me, not an annoying chortle. So I need to stop this thing now, before it’s too late.

I’m not quite sure how I’m going to do it. It will have to involve a lot of me being mindful and speaking more deliberately. Hopefully, the more I intentionally speak without making it, the less I’ll make it when I’m not paying so much attention. And then eventually, I will stop making the sound completely, hopefully just in time for Isa’s first words.

No mother wants to cause pain or suffering to her child, intentionally or unintentionally. This sound I make, has caused me a lot of pain and suffering over the years, more than I even realized. I cannot be the cause of that kind of pain in my daughter’s life. I really think I can stop making the sound if I’m inspired to do so, and sparing my daughter is the best inspiration I can think of.

Thoughtful Thursdays: Unexpected Side Effect

So you may or may not know about my Creme de la Creme Iron Clad Commenter Attempt 2010 – where I’m trying to comment on all (400!) of the Creme de la Creme 2010 posts in 100 days! At first this felt like an exciting undertaking but after just three days I’m experiencing an unexpected side effect.

Yesterday I felt a little out-of-sorts. I wasn’t quite sure what it was, but I was not very enthusiastic at work and last night I got in a silly fight with Mi.Vida over our cat. More specifically, whether or not I liked our cat. You read that right. A fight about my emotional commitment to our feline.

Today I was just, well, melancholy. I felt lack-luster about work again and generally anxious about things. There was nothing in particular worrying me – just life in general feeling a little too scary and uncertain. I couldn’t pinpoint what was making me feel so bad and then suddenly it hit me.

It’s the Creme de la Creme. Because you know what people? There is a lot of suffering on that list. There is a lot of longing, a lot of loss, a lot of pain and a lot of tragedy. I’ve read 20 posts and I would say 15 of them brought tears to my eyes. And a heaviness to my heart.

If 20 posts can make me feel depressed and anxious what will 400 posts do?

I’m not ready to give up yet but I’m going to proceed with caution.

The unexpected side effect of my Creme de la Creme endeavor has me looking more closely at how all my blog reading affects me. Most of the time I really love being a part of the blog community. I am kind of addicted to following the blogs that I subscribe to and I enjoy commenting when I feel a special connection with a particular post. I have followed people from IF and IVF to BFPs and through pregnancies and on to births. It’s amazing to share the stories of so many smart, strong, exceptional women. It’s inspiring and I feel honored to call them “friends”.

The passion I feel about my own blog is a flame I don’t feel could be stoked by anything else. I am a girl who has filled over three dozen journals with my thoughts and feelings in the past twenty years. My best friend and I stayed in touch from sixth grade through college via snail mail and the occasional visit. Expressing myself with words is a part of who I am, and nothing else could ever satisfy that part of me. It fills a gaping hole left in me by my “real life” friends and acquaintances, people who don’t understand how I feel about my ectopic, my daughter or trying again. Having found this community, where people read my words, understand where I’m coming from (hopefully) and sometimes even write me back, means more to me than I could ever say.

I don’t feel like I can write my own blog in a vacuum. It’s important for me to follow other people’s blogs and comment on their tragedies and triumphs. I don’t feel right asking other people to read my entries without me reading theirs.

Having said that I probably read dozens of blogs by women who do not read my own. I have almost 90 subscriptions in my reader and only 50 some odd visits every day, with only the few random comments. As for the ones I read every day, some I want to follow and some I don’t have to heart to give up. But sometimes I wonder if all this blog consumption is good for me.

Sometimes I wonder if my fears about pregnancy and infant loss, SIDS, infertility, secondary infertility and everything in between is amplified by all the stories I follow. How can I expect to NOT think about these things when I read about them every day? Do I really want to be consuming so much of other people’s pain on a day to day basis? Is the feeling of belonging it brings me worth the anxiety it fosters? Sometimes I don’t know.

I’ve asked these questions before, and even taken “breaks” from the blogging world. I think it’s good, every once in a while, to revisit my participation in this community and makes sure my mental health and happiness are factors in my continued (or suspended) involvement. Maybe, while I’m undertaking the Creme de la Creme Attempt I will stop reading some of the blogs in my subscription. Maybe I will jettison the women I’ve always followed and have hoped would follow me, but never have, whatever their reason. Perhaps I need to decide why I’m following some of these blogs – do I just love what they have to say or am I hoping they will read my own blog some day, beginning a kind of blog-friendship? If it’s not 100% the former, perhaps I should learn to let go, because not being acknowledged by women you comment on every day is another kind of hurt that can happen in this community.

Do you ever feel that blogging can affect you negatively? Do you blog primarily to write for yourself or is it for your “readers”? Do you ever comment on a blog hoping to get a comment in return, because you think the writer is awesome and would like to be their “friend”? Have your comments ever gone completely unacknowledged?

I want to end this post thanking all the people who do read my blog, whether you comment or not, whether I know you read or would not recognize your name. Knowing that someone is experiencing what I share with the world means a EVERYTHING to me. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Mindful Mondays: Avoiding the Second Arrow

Imagine you are sitting on the couch watching TV with your partner. You’ve had a few glasses of wine and are feeling pretty good. Laughter spills out of your mouth as you share stories and anecdotes with the person you love most of the world. It’s a wonderful night.

Suddenly water is seeping through your shirt and into your pants. You realize the 20+ ounce cup of water you were just holding slipped from your hands on it’s way to your mouth. A significantly sized swamp has formed on the couch cushions and a waterfall is gushing onto the floor. But you can’t even be upset about that because there, in the middle of the newly formed wetlands, is your brand new iPhone4. Not even a month old and already immersed in water. You cannot believe it.

You grab it and quickly remove the cover while simultaneously drying it off with a towel you grabbed from who-knows-where. Now dry, it seems unscathed but you have yet to turn it on. You do so and all seems fine until a warning appears on the screen. “This accessory not made for iPhone. Distortions will occur.” You have not returned the case to it’s protective position so you know that is not the accessory it’s referring to. You realize sadly that the accessory it’s referring to is the water that is probably seeping slowly into the circuitry. Your iPhone is sarcastically appraising you of the situation – your iPhone is f*cked.

Now, if you’re me, you get fairly upset at this kind of development (which actually happened to me on New Years Eve – luckily my iPhone ended up working fine a few hours later). You think of all the money you spent that is now wasted. You think of how long it will be until you can get another phone for under $200 (two year contracts WHY?!), you throw yourself on the floor lamenting you misfortune and declaring “woe is me” for all to hear. And then you get really upset and you kick yourself over and over again for being such an idiot and you declare yourself the clumsiest mofo around and you decide that no one has EVER done something so stupid in their whole life and your generally berate yourself for your silly mistake, even though it was just that, a mistake.

That, my friends in the second arrow. The first arrow is the dumb thing you did (poor a full glass of water all over your brand new iPhone) but the names you call yourself, the blame your heap on yourself, the guilt you feel, that is the second arrow. The second arrow is what allows the first arrow to do so much damage. The second arrow is what really hurts us.

There is no point in striking yourself with the second arrow. The second arrow is not useful or productive. The second arrow can only inflict pain and suffering. While things can seem very bad indeed, it only makes them worse when we berate ourselves for our part in them.

Of course it is good to learn from your mistakes. You can tell yourself, “in the future I should not leave expensive electrical devices lying around when I’m drinking water,” or “if I were being mindful when I was drinking that, it wouldn’t have happened.” These statements are true and, if said correctly, devoid of judgement or blame. They are simply facts being stated with the intent of avoiding similar arrows in the future.

If we only had to worry about first arrows life would be a more positive, productive place. Unfortunate things would happen but our responses to them would cease to cause us suffering. If we could approach all things, both good and bad with equanimity (that word again – I promise I’ll write about it soon) we wouldn’t have to worry about every little negative thing that happens. If we could remember that impermanence is the basic state of all things, small missteps in the road would not cause us to stumble. If we could avoid the second arrow we’d be happier and more content all around.

I have spent much of my life piercing myself with the second arrow. I’m great at making myself feel like shit for the dumb stuff I’ve done. I’ve lost so many valuable things and each one caused multiple wounds to my self-esteem. And now, looking back, it’s those self-inflicted wounds I remember the most, that caused the deepest scars. It’s tragic to think that my own responses to my misfortunes were more hurtful than the misfortunes themselves.

So the next time you do something that results in a negative consequence, think about how you are responding to it. Are you piercing yourself with the unnecessary second arrow or are you avoiding it? Only you hold the power to dodge the second arrow. It takes practice and self-restraint but it is possible. I promise you, if I can dodge it, so can you.

Mindful Mondays: Worry’s undue suffering

I am a worrier. Feeling overwhelmed by the uncertainty of life was one of the reasons I started looking into Buddhism. I wanted to find a way to to accept that which seemed unacceptable – the inevitable pain and suffering of life.

I’ve slowly and thoughtfully been reading Buddhism for Mothers by Sarah Napthali. I really love the book and I don’t want to speed through, lest I rush past any of the thoughtful lessons that I know apply to me and my anxious, fear driven existence.

The night after I wrote my post about my Acceptance of Suffering I began the chapter in the book about worry. It seemed perfectly timed. Of course worry is a huge part of every parent’s life. We worry about the wellbeing of our children, if they are safe, healthy, happy and fulfilled. We worry that they are eating the right foods, being exposed to developmentally appropriate stimulation, thriving both mentally and physically. We fear they won’t be accepted for who they are or won’t be included by their peers. There are literally countless reasons we can worry for our children. The liberating thing is, while we will inevitably worry, we can choose when, how much and about what. We can also choose how to shoulder the burden of our worry.

As I read the chapter on worry, I came across the most amazing quote. I mentioned it in my 300th blog post as one of my top mantras of the year. This placement in the “Top Three” is telling, as I only came across it in the final days of 2010. But it seemed to speak to me on such a deep, personal level – it was like it was meant just for me. Thank you Mark Twain for saying this.

‘My life has been filled with terrible misfortunes . . . most of which never happened.’

This quote spoke to me because my life has also been filled with terrible misfortunes and the majority of them have been of the not-actually-having-happened variety. Reading this quote I was suddenly, violently, aware of the fact that I could chose whether or not my life was spent lamenting the tragedies that had not yet occurred or appreciating the present moment despite the great uncertainty of the future.

After having my daughter I realized that my twenties had been all but overrun by the tragedies I expected would befall me. I had been so worried about experiencing infertility and pregnancy/infant loss that somewhere, deep inside, I was wounded by those tragedies, even though they had never taken place. The weight of the anxiety surrounding whether or not I would become a mother had become so all consuming, so smothering, that I could hardly accept its fantastical foundation. I had created tragedy in my life where there was none. How tragic is that?

For some reason this quote told me something I already knew it a way that made me actually understand it. If you live your life always fearing future tragedy, it will be as if you’ve lived through the very tragedies you want so desperately to avoid. You are basically condemning yourself to the pain you’re so scared of. Only by accepting the possibility of it and letting it go can you truly be free.

I used to read blogs about loss and feel soul wrenching sorrow for the women whose lives had been devastated by terrible misfortune. I felt such sadness for them as I pondered how horrible it would be if those things happened to me. My compassion wasn’t completely selfish, as I believe we do have to imagine how a person’s loss would affect us if we can ever honestly consider their pain. But the lingering sadness and desolation, that was me reflecting their loss onto my own life. That was me nourishing my worry and fear. That was me creating tragedy where there was none, at least not for me. Then, after feeling that desperate pain, I began to writhe against the unfairness with bitter disgust. I would become so angry at the world for what it could do to some but not to others. I couldn’t stomach the arbitrariness of it all. I couldn’t stand that I’d never know my own fate before it befell me.

Now I feel I can hear about other’s suffering without possessing it. I can (and do) put myself in their place and feel their pain, if only for an instant, but now I do this out of love and compassion, and not out of fear. I read their stories so I can feel empathy towards them and send them loving kindness. I abide their pain so I can honor it.

I realize this post needs at least a mention of equanimity (which doesn’t really exist outside of Buddhism) and an explanation of what loving kindness means in the Buddhist tradition. Both of these are at the heart of this acceptance I speak of. And while I would never purport to being able to tackle either of those topics with any kind of authority (I am an amateur at best, just dabbling in a spiritual understanding rich in wisdom and enlightened teachings), I should at least be presenting what they mean to me in the context of this topic. But I feel I would be getting in over my head (and word limit) so I’ll leave them both for a future post.

Buddha taught that the mind is everything; what you think you become. In the same way, tragedies you imagine can all but become a reality, for if we suffer their possibility surely they can hurt us with the same strength as their realization would. There is enough suffering in life, we don’t need to create it unduly. And if we do succumb to the fear of uncertainty, we have no one to blame for our suffering but ourselves.