After I ended fertility treatments, I decided to change careers and go back to school. I could not return to teaching. I could not work all day with other people's children. Not back then.
If you've been reading for a while you might remember how horrible my program was. I was just reminded myself as I read several posts from 2017 and 2018 trying to find the one I was looking for. The professors were awful. And I wrote very honestly about it back then.
The post I was looking for was this one. It's about the time I missed a class because the research article they were discussing that day was about motherhood and how it brings meaning to life. I don't really know because I never read the article. I emailed the professor and offered to complete an alternate assignment. She replied very rudely, and I've never forgotten it. She told me that I wouldn't get to choose my patients in the future and that my decision to miss class was unprofessional. She had zero compassion.
Well.
Well, well, well... Dr. [Name Redacted (but not redacted for her sake)]. A big middle finger to her.
Because, no, we don't get to pick our patients/students/clients. But we can be compassionate when the situation requires it. Unlike how my professor treated me in the spring of 2017.
Because now, in the fall of 2026, I am healed and I am skilled and I have knowledge about profound grief, disenfranchised grief, and lifelong grief earned through lived experience.
And I can hold space for others. I can validate their experience. I can empathize with them and teach them too, just like so many bloggers and authors did for me over the years.
The people I help support includes mothers.
Without going into too much detail, I've been working with a woman whose son died. She is trying to take care of herself and her health while still showing up in all of the other areas of her life.
Because as we already know, life does not stop for grief.
So I've been able to provide her with a little bit of education about grief. Of course she is grieving and she knows that, but there are so many other things about grief that are rarely explicitly stated. So I just say them. The persistent brain fog. The unspoken timeline from others about when you are supposed to "be over it." The fact that there are some things you don't "get over," but you can get through. And one thing I told her was that grief is very lonely. I told her that she was her son's only mother so nobody else will understand how it feels, and that can be very isolating.
I'm supporting a grieving mother with all that I've learned through my own grief of childlessness.
That professor was very rude and unsupportive nine and half years ago. She was right that we don't get to pick our patients, but she was wrong that I would be forever wounded like I was.
I am strong now, and I can help others navigate their pain.
I wanted a picture of a strong plant to represent grief and growth.
I searched online for "strongest plant ecological resilience" to find an image to go with this post. Lo and behold, I learned about syntrichia caninervis! An article posted just yesterday found it to be "the most resilient desert plant found to date."
