Remembering Yourself
Who are you if you can't do what you thought made you... you?
Taylor and I got away this past weekend to celebrate nine years of marriage. We were a few weeks early, but with our anniversary lining up with the first week of school, a hectic fall season, and the second half of my pregnancy with our fourth child, earlier seemed better.
It was necessary and special to get time away together— shoutout to our parents who make this happen for us often enough that we don’t forget each other— but it was also difficult and often sad.
Pregnancy is never *easy* for me, but this one has been rougher than the past two. I’m nineteen weeks now, and still fighting intense nausea, fatigue, and sometimes even despair. I often can’t eat and daily fail at tasks that should be easy. Sitting at the dinner table is mostly a no-go. Opening the fridge is sometimes a dealbreaker. Eating a piece of toast goes well until it doesn’t.
My dream for the weekend was to eat one meal, have it taste good, and to feel the sensation of being full. (That dream came true, but only for one of the six meals we ate while away.)
During our peaceful drive from Harrisonburg to Charlottesville, Taylor asked me what I hoped the next few years would bring. “It’s hard for me to imagine days any different than the ones I’m surviving right now,” I answered.
“I don’t remember what it’s like to want things other than… like… the ability to eat a meal and feel satiated. I don’t remember how to feel like myself again. It’s hard for me to imagine a reality where I have the energy and capacity to create or write or cook or do anything really.”
Whether it’s pregnancy, chronic illness, a breakup, or depression, I suspect we all endure times in our life where we don’t remember who we are and can’t conceive of a world where we get to be that person again.
I know— or at least I hope— that in another 21-23 weeks, I’ll birth a child and I’ll begin the process of rebuilding trust with my body again. And that will probably lead to reclaiming my brain and my heart and my passions once more, and I’ll be able to dream and hope and express anew.
But right now, I’m stuck in the heaviness that comes from living a life where the best thing that can happen each day is that it finally ends.
Maybe you are too.
If you’ve been in that place, or you are now, my heart is heavy for you.
A few days before we left for our getaway, I asked Taylor if he could try to remind me who I am, or even just tell me he sees how hard I’m trying to be present for our family in the midst of stripping away most everything but surviving. On top of putting our kids to bed, making meals, doing the grocery shopping, letting nap after work, and everything else he’s doing to keep us going. It doesn’t feel equitable or fair to ask it of him, but I did anyway.
Sometimes we need to be reminded of who we are, even when we can’t act like it yet. I don’t know when I’ll start recognizing myself again. I hope its soon. And I know when I do, it’ll be because people who love me spoke my true identity over me while also assuring me that it’s okay if I don’t live up to myself for a while.
Because right now, I can’t do most of the things that, if I’m honest, I thought made me me. Or at least made people like me. I can’t really cook or bake. I’m not writing. I’m not super capable or patient or helpful to my family. I don’t have it all together, and I’m not finishing big home projects.
So why does anyone keep me around? I wanted Taylor to remind me who I am when I can’t do anything useful. He sees me the most, so I’d hoped he would know.
I hope you have someone who will do that for you. And if you don’t, you can always ask for it specifically like I did lol.
Our last morning away, we visited another church in our deanery, Church of the Resurrection in Charlottesville. The sermon focused on how the church around the world already has our primary mission— the great commandment. Matthew 22:37-39 “Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.’ This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like it: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.”
But Fr. Claude also said that each church further contextualizes that mission for its own body, and then detailed the specific mission of Church of the Resurrection. And you’d think this would be maybe boring or just not incredibly pertinent for a couple just visiting for the weekend, but I didn’t find it that way at all.
As he reminded us to enter each day as a newly resurrected creature, I found Fr. Claude’s words both comforting and challenging.
What does seeing each rising sun as a personal resurrection mean for me? What does it mean for my despair? How can I hope for new life in the midst of feeling the familiar (and sometimes debilitating, if only for this season) limitations of my body? How can both be true?
I am now, and hopefully just for this season, living the reality of 2 Corinthians 4:16. Outwardly, I am wasting away. Everything about my physical person feels like a betrayal. But can I, through the mystery of faith, also be renewed day by day?
I feel hopeless. Maybe I’m scared to ask because I’m afraid of being disappointed. But after our weekend away, I’m ready to ask for that daily renewal. For hope that doesn’t get tired. For spiritual resurrection that isn’t reliant on physical realities.
It’s still hard for me to imagine what life could be like five years (or five months) from now. I still need help remembering who I am if I can’t do any of the things I thought made me me. But I have hope enough for today. And I’ll hope for the same tomorrow.