When Seasons Change

Do you remember that feeling you used to get as a kid when you had to go to the doctor for a shot? You watch as the nurse prepares the needle and those little knots begin to form in your stomach. Inevitably, you know what’s coming and you know it’s going to hurt. Taking a deep breath, you brace yourself for the pain.

In two weeks, I will pack my bags and I will get in a taxi and I will drive away from the place I have called home for the last ten months. I will drive away from what ten months ago was just an empty building. I will drive away from nine little girls who made me a mother for the first time. I will drive away from a life we built together on nothing but faith, trust and hope. The girls and I will come to the end of our journey together as a family and we will say goodbye to this sweet season God gave us with each other.  

A very hard thing lies before us.

I have those same knots in my stomach I did when I was a kid at the doctor’s office. Every day, I step a little bit closer to what I know will be inevitable heartbreak, surging pain and a very deep sense of loss. The anxiety that floods my heart every day when I realize that my moments with my kids are now becoming fewer and fewer has overwhelmed me. How do you prepare for what you know will be the hardest thing you ever have to do? How do you enjoy the moments you still have left without thinking about how they will soon only be memories? How do I finish with no regret? I know that there will always be more that I could have done, more I could have said, more kisses and hugs I could have given. I also know that nothing in my own power could ever be enough for them.

I’m learning the hardest part of the battle: letting go. I will have to feel the lightness in my palms when you realize your hands are empty. And in between letting go and feeling my hands fill again, it may feel like I’m standing in a desert. A loss before the next chapter starts; that’s where grief happens.

I’m scared. I’m scared of tearing the band-aid off. I’m scared to go back to life as a normal 23 year-old, going out with her friends on a Friday night instead of tucking nine little girls into bed. I’m scared of not hearing squeaky little voices yell, “Natty Mummy!” at me anymore. I’m scared of the loneliness I will feel when I go home, of feeling forever torn between two lives. I’m scared of how much it will hurt to miss them. I’m scared to move on without them.

People told me I was brave for moving here to do this. But I think my bravest moment will be to leave this behind and come home with faith that God still has more for me. Hope that the best is still yet to come.

The good thing about getting a shot is that once it’s over, it works from the inside out to make you well. The medicine works to protect, restore, and heal you. At the end of it all, you’re better for that shot. You’re stronger. You’re ready to stand back up again.

The pain was worth it.