I was first introduced to Chip and Joanna Gaines through the Instagram feed of someone with whom I went to High School who now works as an Executive Producer on their show Fixer Upper. While I’ve never seen an episode, I’ve seen plenty of behind the scenes footage to get a general sense of their charming personalities and inspiring work ethic. Their memoir was another one of those books that happened to be stacked near the check out counter of our local library, so I grabbed it. I’m so, so glad I did.

Written in tandem, with respective typefaces, it reads almost like a conversation. She’ll offer one part of the story, and he’ll interject with his recollection, or vise versa. I enjoyed learning about their individual history, but I was really taken by their respect for one another as a couple and even more so as business partners. They quite literally built their industry together, from the ground up, and what they have managed to accomplish in a relatively short amount of time is staggering. And all while remaining true to their very strong value system.

I could easily relate to a lot of what Joanna had to say about being a working mother, and I especially appreciated how she shared that her greatest successes began to materialize once she decided to make family her central focus. She talks about surviving versus thriving, and that it’s often all in the choices we make in how we chose to react. Ultimately, the message I took away from this quick and enjoyable read was that the life of your dreams is waiting for you, if you’re willing to have faith, be patient, and work hard.

Learning more about this dynamic husband and wife team of entrepreneurs couldn’t have come at a better time as I ponder my own future and where I’d like to direct both my creative and professional energy. I’m ready to translate many of my ideas into actionable projects – thinking less and doing more, taking responsibility for what I can and letting go of the rest.

PS: I posted the eighteenth piece of my miscarriage recovery story, if you’re interested.

The warmth of your love
Is like the warmth of the sun
And this will be our year
Took a long time to come

And I won’t forget
The way you held me up when I was down
And I won’t forget the way you said,
“Darling I love you”
You gave me faith to go on
Now we’re there and we’ve only just begun
And this will be our year
Took a long time to come
Yeah we only just begun
Yeah this will be our year
Took a long time to come

PS: I posted the seventeenth piece of my miscarriage recovery story, if you’re interested.

The site’s still not functioning. I’m barely keeping it together. But at least the sun was shining today, and my sons and I were able to dip our toes into the sea.

PS: I posted the sixteenth piece of my miscarriage recovery story, if you’re interested.

The third day on a row I’ve been prevented for accessing my silly little website on account of a database error….

The Year of the Rooster. Bring it.

PS: I posted the fifteenth piece of my miscarriage recovery story, if you’re interested.

New moon in Aquarius. The first new moon of the new year. Yes, there is a beeswax candle burning next to me, resting on an owl shaped ceramic dish, and yes, there’s a large chunk of harlequin quartz resting in my lap. Here goes.

Undoubtedly, 2016 was a death year, a year of endings. Numerologically, it was a 9 (2+0+1+6=9), which signifies the end of the cycle, completion. So, it stands to reason that 2017 would be a year of new beginnings.

But, as Seneca (and that silly Semisonic song) says, every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end.

Oy vey iz mir. I’ve had it with the endings!

I don’t think there’s been a single day this year that I haven’t cried, and absolutely none of those tears have been shed in joy. My heart is broken, my body is exhausted, my brain is fried. What gives, Universe?!

If Aquarius is the sign of emotions, then what am I to make of all this despair? I am trying to perceive it as a call to action – but what action, exactly? I am making an effort to consider different perspectives, but at the end of the day, I simply can’t wrap my head around most of the “alternative facts” with which I’m being presented. I disagree on a soul level, not even an intellectual level, but one where every fiber of my being cries NOOOO, THIS IS JUST WRONG.

My interpretation of all this craziness in which I currently find myself swimming is to truly, unequivocally, listen to my instincts. My gut has been with me longer than anyone, so I’m placing all my faith in myself. I will get myself through this. And I will absolutely not compromise the things I hold, have always held, as fundamental values: love, peace, respect, diversity, equality, justice, and citizenship.

As I sit quietly with my candle tonight, I will repeat the Sanskrit prayer I learned long ago when I was in Yoga Teacher Training: Lokah Samastah Sukhino Bhavantu – May all beings everywhere be happy and free, and may the thoughts, words, and actions of my own life contribute in some way to that happiness and that freedom for all.

PS: I posted the fourteenth piece of my miscarriage recovery story, if you’re interested.

Six months ago, on my birthday, I could have never imagined where I’d be today, six months later. It’s been a wild ride, and I don’t think it’s over yet.

The good news is that I’m uncommonly adaptable, and unfailingly resilient. This is only going to make me stronger.

Of course, I’d prefer to not be in the middle of a storm. But if it’s going to rain, I’m going to look for the rainbows. And when it’s darkest, that’s when the stars shine their brightest.

PS: I shared the thirteenth piece of my miscarriage recovery story, if you’re interested.

Circa July 2011, on the ferris wheel at the Santa Monica Pier. That day is forever etched in my heart. So much happiness, and more love than you could possibly imagine.

PS: I shared the twelfth piece of my miscarriage recovery story, if you’re interested.

There’s a darkness upon me that’s flooded in light
In the fine print they tell me what’s wrong and what’s right
And it comes in black and it comes in white
And I’m frightened by those that don’t see it

There’s a darkness upon me that’s flooded in light
In the fine print they tell me what’s wrong and what’s right
There’s a darkness upon me that’s flooded in light
And I’m frightened by those that don’t see it

PS: I posted the eleventh piece of my miscarriage recovery story, if you’re interested.

I nursed my sweet Huckle for the last time seven months ago.

At the time, I was pregnant. I was sick with hyperemesis, struggling to stay hydrated and nourished, and nursing had become painful. After almost two and a half years, it was clear that our nursing relationship had grown to be more about comfort than it was about nutrients. I had been keen to let him take the lead as to when we would wean, just as I had let my other two children dictate their readiness to part with the breast, but given how ill I was feeling, I strongly encouraged the end.

Which is to say, the next day, I didn’t offer. And when he asked, I denied him. I suppose in his own way, he was ready, because he never really fussed about not getting to nurse. So long as he could nestle between my breasts, one had on each, he was able to soothe himself to sleep. After all, he’d nursed longer than the other two combined!

With the knowledge that I would have a new baby to nurse, I was definitely not as heartbroken as I would have been otherwise. And of course, once I lost that baby, the loss of my nursing relationship with Roux became absolutely agonizing in retrospect. I felt as though I had betrayed him, even as I myself had been betrayed by my own body.

Of all my babies, Roux is the only one who ever had a deeply affectionate attitude toward breastfeeding and my breasts in general. Even now, seven months later, he falls asleep with one hand holding his “boobie”. When he’s upset or nervous, he’ll reach inside my shirt, placing his tiny hand softly upon my chest. It’s sweet, and it’s sad, all at the same time.

I am proud of how well we did, he and I. Against all odds, even. We were told from the beginning that due to his prematurity, he might never actually nurse, that he would have more success with pumped breast milk from a bottle. And for the first five weeks of his life, every three hours, that is exactly what I did. After he came home from the NICU, I obsessively researched how to encourage cognitive development in premature babies, and nearly every single resource mentioned breastfeeding – not breastmilk, but actually feeding from the breast – as one of the most effective ways to support brain function. I was hesitant at first given his low birth weight and the need to keep him on the side of gaining. Any weight loss would have found us right back in the hospital. But once it became clear that he was doing better than any doctor had suspected, I took it upon myself to ditch the bottle and feed him the old fashioned way. He took to the breast immediately, and continued to gain weight at an impressive rate. At our next visit with our pediatrician, herself an expert in premature nutrition, she couldn’t believe that he was feeding so well directly from the breast. She told me it was risky, but she was supportive. At his six month visit, we were told that she could count on one hand the number of babies born in their 35th week that had been able to exclusively breastfeed with such success.

Breastfeeding was the first of his many developmental achievements; he has continued to chalk up such accolades, defying all the odds he was given at birth.

Nursing has been the highlight of my life as a mother of young babies. Each of my children and I have shared a unique bond, no nursing relationship has been alike. All three have had their own individual words, rituals, habits, patterns, and each one of them has been precious. To think I might never nurse another baby is a special kind of sorrow, yet I can’t help but be grateful to my body for allowing me one of the greatest physiological experiences of them all. Altogether, I have spent four years and four months nursing my kids, and I’m damn proud to have done so.