“Hands pointed at me as they whispered to each other, ‘She is deaf.’ I feared my daughter would not understand me. I feared I would not hear my daughter. One day, when she was in 2nd grade, a boy made her upset by making fun of my accent. She said, ‘My mom is deaf!’ This was just the beginning for her to witness my challenges. I sobbed as soon as we got home. My daughter comforted me, cried with me.”
“But, for some, it wasn’t, and it won’t be for a while. And for those, I pray. After my dad passed, everything was a struggle. I’d get dressed and wonder why. I’d go to put my makeup on and feel like a self-obsessed idiot. What was the point of wearing mascara? How could I care how I look at a time like this? I was a fragile shell of the girl I was just days before. You can do better.”
“I cannot imagine what was said amongst the 9 of them when they realized their fate. The fear in their eyes, the white on their knuckles. But what I do know is when that helicopter went down on Sunday morning, NINE people walked into Heaven together. Not two.”
“We were awaiting my son Jesse’s arrival for a big celebration. Instead, the Marines met me. ‘Your son’s been killed.’ He died driving home, on the same highway, in the same state where his father died 14 years earlier. I could sense Jesse saying, ‘Okay, God, I’ll go with You, but don’t let my mama hurt.’ I immediately felt a tangible peace cover me.”
“I was living with a very dangerous individual. With him gone, the nightmare became more real. I felt unsafe in the house. You can’t change locks on a shared ownership home. One day, I came home to find my bed had disappeared, along with all the mirrors. He would not stop until he had destroyed everything. The house was repossessed and I received a Christmas card from him. ‘Hope you and your sons are cold on the streets this Christmas. Here’s hoping you prosper.’”
“Before I came out, Shannon and I decided to try for another baby. I got approved by the Marine Corps to begin my transition and started hormone therapy. Soon after, we announced we were pregnant. At 2 a.m., Shannon and I were getting ready to have our baby. We thought we had plenty of time. I walked into the bathroom and noticed blood in the water. She told me, ‘We aren’t going anywhere. Call 911.’ One push later, our baby slid into my arms. We were all smiles and shellshock.”
“When people ask me, ‘What is it like to live in the hospital?’ the first images that come to my mind are your faces and your hands. You listen and teach. You take the time to help us understand. You bring me coffee and chocolate. You look me in the eye when you give good or bad news. I have never been more honored to witness anyone fulfill their calling in life. I am on sacred ground with you.”
“She’s our wild child. We are at a loss when it comes to how to parent her. She has pushed me to tears with the many ways I feel I’m failing her as amother. And yet, she’s amazing. She will not and cannot bend to our will. She refuses to be anything but herself. That is the kind of strength I only wish I could find within myself.”
“After 6 months of trying, we had more negative tests than I could count. I was told I had two large cysts on my ovaries. ‘Keep trying. If in 6 months, you still aren’t pregnant, call me.’ Our bones are laced with grief.”
“I see you at the school drop-off. Sometimes, we exchange a little smile, an ‘I get it.’ But more often, you don’t see me. You’re chasing your toddler down the aisles, watching your pre-schooler like a hawk as she climbs a little too high, or reaching for a wet wipe. Up on the hill are the shiny twentysomethings selfie-snapping, rested, and toned. Magnificently oblivious to what is coming their way. They don’t even see us. Or if they do, they swear they will never be us.”
