Change is Hard but Worth It

I went for a walk. It was wonderful, but even doing something wonderful that's new requires doing something different. I haven't gone for a second walk yet. It's been raining and then I got sick. But, I'm going to! It felt so good to be outside, move my legs, and look at the grass and trees.

New habits are hard to create.

New lives are heard to create.

But like I always say, what's the alternative? 

Stay where I was? Live in the beautiful 4-bedroom, 3-bathroom, 2-story house with my husband who drank at the sports bar 3 - 5 times a week? Um, no. Absolutely not. Living in my children's house without my children was not an option for me. Not if I wanted to stay alive. I am that serious. Staying married when I could be lonely by myself was also not what I wanted for myself. I deserved more than that.

I gave myself a better life, and I did it by myself. I haven't received any emotional support from my family of origin for my lack of children, my divorce, or the loss of life as I thought it was going to be. I forged the way forward on my own at first, and then I found up bloggers in front of me, beside me, and behind me along the way. 

Change isn't easy. That's why most people don't do it. Changing your life takes a lot of work.

That first step can feel impossible.

For me, it was registering to take Anatomy & Physiology I and II at the local community college. The task felt so ovewhelming. There was doing it, like figuring out how to sign up for the class, which overwhelmed me. Then there was following through with it, like actually going to class and doing assignments, which also overwhelmed me.

So I didn't do it. I didn't register for the classes. I didn't go and I didn't have to do the homework.

Then another year passed. And I was in the exact same position. Living in my children's house without my children. Bored. Lonely. Depressed. Still dreading Anatomy & Physiology I & II.

So I did it anyway.

I went online. Created an account. Figured out how to register. Showed up for class. Did my homework. And cried every night.

I didn't want to, but I did it anyway.

Both classes eventually ended. I passed. I applied for grad school, got in, and the rest is history. While I didn't love grad school, I now have a job that I don't hate. Not only do I not hate it, I actually love it. I mean, it's still a job. I work too much and I'd rather not, but, hey, at least I like it!

Change can't wait until we are ready. Change can't wait until we are comfortable. The comfort we're seeking is on the other side of change. Just like with grief, we have to do the work. Well, we GET to do the work. We don't HAVE to do anything. We are totally allowed to stay where we are.

But if you want something different?

You have to cross the street.

You have to take that first step that gets you to the park. And then you have to walk at the park. And then you have to keep going back. And then later, much later (muuuch later than you want, but also time flies so it'll be here sooner than you know it), you'll feel better.

Time passes either way. You can take the class. You can walk at the park.
Or you can stay where you are.

You get to create your life, one decision and one small action (or inaction) at a time.

Change takes time. The Colorado River didn't carve the Grand Canyon in a day.

Picture found here

Unexpected Disclosure

I used to feel very weird disclosing my infertility at work. Well, anywhere really. But especially at work. It felt very weird to disclose something so personal in an environment where I prefer to keep the topics to recipes and the weather. Over time though, like with most everything else...
I just don't care anymore. 

😂😂😂

But here's an interesting story. 

They did a lot of work on my office at my new job. They had to change out some furniture, and they ended up repainting all four walls. Then I got to choose from an approved list and they hung artwork in the hallway. So, I got to know a couple of the facilities guys while they were working.

One day it was just one of them there. He would say "we" when telling a story. Like, "We made homemade chili for dinner last night." Or, "We live outside of town on a lot of acreage." Without thinking (really, without thinking, I can't believe I had a lapse in judgment and I actually said this) I asked, "Who's 'we?' You got a wife and kids?" 

And I swear there was a barely-there pause, a fraction of a hesitation...

He replied, "Oh, I'm married. But no kids. That didn't work out for us."

I whipped my head around so fast and rambled, "Really?? Me too. I mean, I'm divorced. Not married. But kids didn't work out for me either. For us. Oh my gosh, I can't believe I just asked you that. I am so sorry. I never ask people that. I'm so sorry I just asked you that. I can't have kids either. How's your wife? Is she doing okay?"

I can make an awkward situation feel even more awkward. It's a skill I have. I'm a natural.

He just looked at me for a second. I'm thinking maybe he's never talked about this with another person other than his wife before. Maybe one or two other people. A brother or a best friend. But I get the feeling that this isn't something this guy talks about freely. He just looked at me. 

"I always wanted to be a dad."

"Yeah... I always wanted to be a mom."

And neither one of us tried to make it better for the other. Neither one of us tried to fix it with adoption or IVF. Neither one of us offered the common response of "At least you get to travel/sleep in/spend all of your money on yourself!" We just stood in silence in the hallway at work for several seconds.

I thanked him for sharing that with me. I told him that he knows my email address, since we work together, and that I'm available if his wife ever needed support. I said I did not expect to ever hear from her but it's totally fine if I do. 

Then we moved on to our usual conversation, which is where we've had good tacos around town.

But that was a pretty meaningful connection. About infertility. At work.

My 11th Survivor Anniversary

I can barely believe it's been over 11 years since my last fertility treatment didn't result in pregnancy. In one way, it almost feels like it never happened. I'm no longer trying to get pregnant or adopt anymore. I don't live in that house anymore. I'm not married to my husband anymore. It's not even "Who am I?" anymore either. 

Everything has changed. Where I live, who I'm with, what I do, and, oh, WHO I AM.

Yet, my 11th Survivor Anniversary came and went without much fanfare this year. 

Oh wait, that's not entirely true. I had finished the draft of my research article the weekend or two before, so I decided to submit my research ON my Survivor Anniversary. It felt great. It was not anticlimactic at all. It was a huge relief to submit it. I felt so damn proud.

And then the next day I received the rejection. (Really?? The journal editor didn't even sit on it for 24 hours?) And, guess what, I barely even cared. Of course I was disappointed. But the rejection email I received was so tone deaf, so freakin' RUDE that it actually made it easier to process the rejection. I read the email, rolled my eyes, and moved on.

I am not the same.

Infertility, failed treatments, and not getting to be the mom I always wanted to be changed me.

That's just the first academic journal I submitted my research to. Oh, it's on now. I will continue to submit my research until it's published. That first journal I tried? Their loss. Big time. 

On my 11th Survivor Anniversary all I could do was laugh at my nerdy self for living through my worst nightmare and then conducting RESEARCH about it. Hahaha. Nerd!

Have you seen Pretty Woman? This shopping scene is what I immediately thought of
when I read that rejection email. I found this pic on an old tumblr post.

Too Much Upheaval

I've been struggling for the last couple of weeks. Everything feels harder and my mood has dipped. I'm SO GLAD I moved, but I really underestimated how difficult it was going to be. That's probably a good thing. I already knew it was going to be hard. I didn't need to know how hard it was going to be before it even started. 

I will most likely move again. Our lease is up in 7 months. I like our rental property, but I can't afford to buy it and complete the upgrades it needs. Plus, it's not for sale. 

But hopefully, I won't move states again. In all honesty, I'm running out of places to move to. However, I am willing to move out of the country if any of my international readers need a caregiver. Just throwing that idea out into the universe! ;)

Infertility devastated me. I had planned to be a mom my whole life. I organized my whole life around it. Rebuilding my existence as a divorced, childless woman has been extremely hard. It felt almost impossible. Seven and eleven years later (that's the divorce and ending fertility treatments, respectively), I'm feel like I'm still picking up the pieces. I'm just so tired. 

I can't seem to figure out how to do all of the things I need and want to do: work full-time, cook good food, clean the house, sleep enough, exercise, explore my new area, make new friends, and sew. Right now I am working full-time and sleeping enough so that's good. But I want to fit in the other stuff too.

I am overweight. I do not feel comfortable in my body. Even if I do not lose any weight (that number is just the measure of our gravitational pull toward Earth anyway), I want to feel better and have more endurance. I'm convinced exercise is the missing ingredient in my life, but I haven't started doing it before work (too early!), after work (too tired!), or on the weekends (I just want a break!). 

I'm in a funk. And it makes total sense. I'm perimenopausal. I just moved halfway across the country. I started a new job where I am creating a new department and program for a large organization. I am still profoundly sad by the words and actions of my family of origin throughout my life. Current events are gravely misaligned with my values. And everything is getting so damn expensive. It's hard!

It has been so, so hard to rebuild my life after going full force in one direction for thirty-five years. Infertility was traumatic. Divorce was sad too. Not to mention, getting divorced completely changed my financial situation and I will most likely never be financially comfortable like that again. However, my peace of mind and sense of self are priceless. I'll admit I often feel frustrated financially, but I have no regrets about choosing my spirit and happiness over financial comfort.

This is another rambling post. But I cried three times last week. All short. All healthy releases. I just needed to admit to myself that the move has been hard. The new awesome job has been hard. My family is hard. The sociopolitical climate is hard. Hell, the actual climate is hard.

I am fighting depression. I am tired, but I am fighting anyway. I use the word "fight" generously. I am not "fighting hard." I am doing as little as possible, ha. I'm taking things down a notch. Again. Instead of cooking this week, I might just get healthy take-out salads for dinner. Instead of loading up my errands and chores in an effort to get stuff done, this week I'm going to take it easy. Do less. Just go to work and come home. And tell myself "fuck it" when I start thinking I should do this or I should do that. There's a time and a place for that mentality, but that is not what I need. Not this week. Not today, Satan.

I'm gonna make myself go for a walk though. For 5 - 10 minutes. Just a little something. Movement and fresh air. I don't know when... Before work? After work? On the weekend? But I'll report back that I did it. I'm going to hold myself accountable. I'm in that stage between having a low mood and being depressed, and if I don't do something differently, it will be harder to get out of it. I know this. I've been here before. 

I searched online for "fabric mess" and found this picture here. I thought a picture like that could be a relatable picture of upheaval for me. It also reminds me that great things come from creative messes. We don't create awesome new things from staying the same. 

Disenfranchised Grief

Hello friends. How are you doing? I am up and down. I know that's life. But it feels more intense this year compared to others. It's different. It's scary. It's sad. My heart aches for myself, and my heart aches for everyone. It doesn't have to be like this, but here we are.

I can't talk about it all of the time, but I have to acknowledge it occasionally. Times are weird. Things are not normal. Not the norms that we grew up with.

I miss a lot of things. I miss landlines and human decency. I miss the more distinct division between the days as opposed to this ongoing 24/7 stream of news and emails and expectations from others. I miss affordable gas, groceries, and housing. I miss the illusion of stability that I used to have. 

None of that is uplifting.

But, like I said, it's important for me to acknowledge it. 

I need to connect with others. I need to connect with others who see what is actually going on (as much as we can understand it). I don't want to talk about it all of the time. But I feel uncomfortable when I think about spending time with people who think everything is fine and dandy. I don't want to hang out with people who don't get it.

I know both kinds of people: those that are concerned and those that are not. I know a lot of both kinds of people. Quite honestly, it's a mind fuck. It's so weird to know so many kind, loving, and hardworking people that are not concerned. It's WEIRD.

So I'm sad, mad, and confused. (I am also happy, grateful, and excited about a couple of things, but that's not what this post is about.)

And that brings me to disenfranchised grief.

• From Merriam-Webster's dictionary:
• disenfranchised--deprived of some right, privilege, or immunity
• grief--deep and poignant distress caused by or as if by bereavement
  
  
• From Wikipedia:
• disenfranchised grief--describes forms of grief that are not acknowledged on a personal or societal level; term coined by Dr. Kenneth J. Doka in 1989
• a mourner's loss may be viewed as insignificant which can be lead to feelings of isolation and doubt over the impact of the loss experienced
• there are few support systems, rituals, traditions, or institutions available to those experiencing grief and loss

Sound familiar?

I've been here before.

 
Infertility and being childless-not-by-choice gave me so many tools I never asked for. 

Also, I give myself a shit ton of credit. I didn't have to pick up the pieces of my soul and figure out what to do. I didn't have to pick up those tools that infertility left lying there in the wake of its destruction. I didn't have to pick them up, I didn't have to sharpen those tools, I didn't have to hone my skills. But I did. So many of us have. You can too. 

It sucks. It sucks when life sucks. And I don't mean the I'm-bored-and-life-is-hard-and-this-sucks kind of sucks. I mean the I'm-alive-but-don't-want-to-be-but-I'm-hanging-on-but-don't-know-why kind of sucks. It sucks BAD. So bad that there really aren't words for it. 

It makes it even harder when others don't realize we're grieving. Or worse, they judge our grieving.

When you're living in one world and others are living in a completely different one, it's disorienting. It makes you question yourself even though you only have your perspective and experiences to go off of. Whether the different worlds are on a micro-level or a macro-level, I'm learning, it doesn't make a difference. Both experiences are equally destabilizing.

So.

Just throwing all that out there. In a moment of acknowledgment.

My experiences with disenfranchised grief during my darkest years are informing how I'm coping with disenfranchised grief during our current international economic and sociocultural climate.

It sucks to have those experiences, but I'm glad I developed some skills from them.

Holy crap this is a great article! It's quick, easy to read, and has great content about how to build and use your own mental health toolkit. It's where the picture above came from.

Entering a New Season

I love it when my life is in sync with the seasons.  Winter is usually my favorite, but I am uncharacteristically looking forward to spring this year. Like winter changing to spring, I'm in a phase of life where a lot of major projects are ending. I'm curious what will fill the empty spaces.

Eventually.

I'm in no rush.

The move is winding down. It has been quite a process. But we've got our address changed on everything, and we only have one more trip back to the old place for a couple things. My boyfriend was there a couple of weeks ago to clean out the house. It will be on the market soon, and I am really excited to sell it. Most everything here is still in boxes, but we are functional and almost halfway through our lease already.

My new job is transitioning from one phase to another. The first phase has been a lot of work, and so will the second phase. But I'm looking forward to it. I think I'm going to prefer the second phase of things. Here's hoping! Lol.

Remember my research? I've been hard at work on that in the background of everything else. I've definitely hit my own saturation point, but that's understandable. I've been working on it for over three years. However, I am at the very end. I have one last presentation to give at another national conference, and I (finally!) finished an article draft to submit for publication. Hopefully, my draft will be returned to me for revisions and then accepted and published. Then it will be out there and on the books for others to reference and build on.

Lots of endings. All positive. All welcome.

I'm in no rush to fill the space. 

I promise.

I want to live my simple life. Eat, sleep, work, and sew. Continue improving my cooking, cleaning, and exercising efforts. Get outside a little since the weather is nicer. See some friends eventually.

This post doesn't even have anything to do with infertility. Not really. I mean, my research is about infertility, but nothing in this post is directly about infertility. 

It's like the rest of my life. Infertility is a part of it. My life is how it is because of infertility and what I did with that, but my life isn't totally and completely about infertility anymore. Infertility is no longer central. Now it's more foundational yet peripheral.

Maybe that's another thing that's ending. My 11th Survivor Anniversary is coming up later this month (when I quit infertility treatments) and the pain is no longer acute. It's no longer chronic. It's intermittent. There's a whole lot more space for other things now.

Lots of things ending. New things will begin.

Spring is in the air.

Credit: Getty Images

How To Recover from Burnout

2024 sucked. And it's not like the decade leading up to it was a party. Then 2024 happened, and it tipped the scales for me. I was toast. I was burned out.

So I blogged about it. And tonight I was reading some old posts. Well, first, I was thinking about how it's only been six months since I realized I had to move, and now here I am in a new state with a new job. I marveled at how it was all even possible when I decided to read my old posts on recovering from burnout.

There were 5 posts over the course of 15 months.

Extreme Burnout

From Burnout to Boundaries

From Rest to Routines 

Recover, Then Restore

Recovered From Burnout in 2025

After years of reading self-help books, it's like I created a step-by-step plan for myself.
(In retrospect. At the time I didn't know what I was doing.)

I write this post as I lie on my couch. I am very tired from working all week, and I am still tired from moving. It's all good though. I will take this exhaustion. I like my job and I'm glad we moved. 

But as tired as I am, I am definitely not burned out. I'm tired from working and moving. It's not from being undervalued and overworked. It's not the burnout kind of fatigue that takes a long time to recover from. It's the daily tired where I'll feel better in the morning after a night's sleep.

Now that I think of it, there are so many ways to be tired. Burnout. Physical exhaustion. Cognitive fatigue. Existential restlessness. They all require different antidotes.

For burnout, the posts linked above describe my process for recovery.

It takes time.

I found this stuffed animal (I'm toast!) in an online store that has lots of funny pillows.