She Rises. Unstoppable. Powerful Breakthrough

By Samantha Evans Tschritter

Author

For weeks, I’d wallowed. I’d eaten more Original Chicken sandwich meals from Burger King than I could count. I’d alienated most of my friends, and I’d levitated from one minute to the next, dragged forward through time against my will. Every tick of the clock brought me further away from the moment when my baby had been alive inside me.

I tucked the sheer curtain behind the nail moonlighting as a curtain holdback and peered through the rain-splattered window.

In response, I retreated and gave ‘crazy recluse’ a try. My gray feline brushed against my leg and mewed. I’d need more cats to complete the ensemble.

I stared out the window at the rain spotting the sidewalk. Grief shot through my veins like a live wire, and I knew ‘Crazy Cat Lady’ would never suite me.

The enemy of my enemy is my friend. I sat on the porch steps and yanked my running shoe laces until my feet yelped in pain. I stood, inhaled the sweet smell. Rain displayed empathy. The skies mood matched my own. I stood and welcomed the drops pelting my face. Invigorated, I forced my feet into a faster pace.

You’ll never hold a baby that’s yours. There’s something wrong with you.

With every footfall, I slammed grief to the pavement.

When I reached the point I normally turned around, I continued running in the opposite direction of the house. My lungs squeezed. My thighs burned.

Grief faltered. What? Where are you going? Turn around. Turn around!

The chorus of “Tubthumper” by Cumbawamba played on repeat in my head. Every step inspired me—a rhythmic mantra. You are strong. You are brave. You will overcome. Finally free, I smiled.

Since the loss, the only people I’d taken calls from were other moms who’d experienced infant loss. In the span of grief’s silence, a plan formed—the idea to transform pain into purpose. Love Letters to Miscarriage Moms.

Writing, running, and grief all have one thing in common— they take you out of your head and transport your mind to another place. To write, I’d not have to venture far.

I’d pound my fingers across the keyboard like feet to the pavement and I’d beat back grief the same way. I’d wrangle my sorrow into surrender, then splendor.

And the tag would be “You are not alone. Written in the midst of my grief so you will not be alone in yours.”

I’d describe the run and the burning fire inside me, the seemingly inescapable ache. And I’d tell the women reading my words that sometimes life is so hard you have to take life one breath at a time. But it fades, and you are brave. Your ‘hard’ will not define you. Use your ‘hard’ to inspire you. And the person who stands on the other side of the crucible, the woman tempered by fire, she … she can accomplish anything.

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