Sometimes you Win, Sometimes you Lose a Fallopian Tube.

How my grieving journey has, hopefully, helped me be a better writer.

30 days. That's all it takes to create a habit, or so I’ve read. Books like James Clear’s Atomic Habits, and other world known titles will tell you something similar, but past me, would have cared less about your habits. I cared about mine. A challenge has never struck me as intimidating, and winning was often something I achieved if I struck out to do something I knew I was good at.

My first problem. Winning sometimes, felt like it was every time.

Of course I could be a vegan for 30 days; any talented chef can survive on their limitations. 

Of course I could exercise 5 times a week for 30 days; at least, because I grew up in sports. 

Of course I can read 100 books in 2024, I read 20 in the last four months of 2023. 

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My second problem. Delusion crept up on me.

Underestimating what it takes to write a good novel. Yeah, I read a lot of them, but I did it when I was at my “happiest”, if you could even consider that level of living I was doing as “happy”. 

I had a child at twenty eight, a successful marriage for over four years, and almost an accelerated career in culinary arts, even becoming lucky enough to work in a Michelin Star restaurant. Making me delusional enough to think if I could commit to anything, for at least 30 days, I could do anything. Like be a writer. 

Writing at first was easy. I got the structure down, I had the inspiration for the story. Words flowed like a river to the pages. Making characters believable was quick, because they were the admirable people in front of me everyday. Inspirations in life sparked joy and immediately helped the personification of my imaginary storytellers. 

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But imposter syndrome is a real thing, don’t let anyone ever tell you otherwise. 

Depression fights against you, even when you want to battle it. 

And loss happens when you least expect it. 

Suddenly, I was finished with my first draft. Then the editing of my first draft. I finished my second draft almost effortlessly. I had beta readers excited, and my Substack blog was created.

Then I got pregnant. My husband and I were scared, but beyond excited. Filling our heads with dreams of a future family of four. We told friends and family because baby number two, supposedly, sneaks up on you. We pulled out the long list of names to look at and discuss. Arguing if family names like Amos and Edger were two “old fashion”. Timelines were plotted and calendars marked. 

One day. That’s all it takes to change everything. The entire trajectory of your life.

Pain. That's the first sign truly that you aren’t okay. Your body will tell you when it’s struggling. We push ourselves to exhaustion, only drinking coffee all day, because we're “too busy”. Then by nightfall we feel like…. well, shit. Your body knows it needs to trigger your pain receptors, and when you begin to rupture organs that pain is unmistakable. 

Blood. That’s the second indicator of an issue with a pregnancy. They will tell you “not always”, but when accompanied by pain, life altering pain, then you're in trouble. 

Doctors said things like, ectopic and cyst, then pushed agonizing tests to determine what they could “see”. Until so much blood clouded the scans, and internal bleeding was the only thing that mattered. Not the pregnancy loss. No, that was swept aside like the names we had chosen hadn't matter. Making the finishing of the basement become a problem for another year. Like declining HCG numbers were a line to cross on the way to victory, not stopping and turning around to run back. 

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Turning back is the easy route, but often the one that no longer exists.

Winning makes things light, and fun, and the risks seem worth taking. 

Losing makes you scared, darker, and less inclined to work for what you want. 

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