Don’t panic: I don’t want this to become an infertility blog anymore than you do. It has been, is, and shall remain a blog about what ever random thinking I happen to be doing at the time. But at this current time, I just so happen to be thinking about infertility– specifically mine–so here we are.

A long, long time ago, before I lacked all that polished wisdom I have now, I wrote a blog about being the impossibility of being the Renaissance Woman. The tone was light and maybe silly, but I actually think something that I wrote is still somewhat accurate: 2012 Sierra wrote, “In the woman’s mind, Bad (Homemaker, Feminist, Skinny Person, Super Model, Etc) = Bad Person.”  Now, I’ll amend this, since I am pretty sure not all women subscribe to this super toxic line of thinking. However, one thing became abundantly clear this year: I sure do. 

This year was marked by my inability to have kids, and it dogged me so deeply. Even if I tried to condition myself out of thinking this way, my inner-demons (who, in case you are wondering, sit right on top of my ego and jab at it whenever it seems to be getting too healthy) informed me that I couldn’t even function at the most basic female level. I fed those demons, I admit it.

I think some people might call me a control freak, and that’s fine, but they don’t see all the things I let go of easily inside my own head. I can let things go most of the time because I am in control of the things that matter. Not this year. Not in 2017. So it started with my inability to control my stupid uterus. And then, because I handed the reigns over to my inner demons, I started feeling frustrated with the fact that I, individually, could not save the world from Donald Trump. And strangely, in my super toxic line of thinking, these two shortcomings became conflated. And I can laugh about the absurdity of it now, but couldn’t then, because once I was on what Allie Brosch calls the Sneaky Hate Spiral, the only way to dive was down. My life became a giant crucible of “Blech” (give that “ch” a super guttural breath of air for full comprehension of the grossness), and I was caught up in the milieu with no foreseeable exit ticket. Bad baby-maker=bad person, I reasoned. Bad person= bad teacher. Bad teacher = Bad citizen. Bad citizen = Bad friend. Bad friend= Bad person. It’s a little vicious. No room for self-care in that poorly balanced equation.

This last month, I’ve been clawing out of the “Crucible of Blech” little by little, degree by degree. And despite what scores of bloggers and salespeople want me to believe, no exercise regimen or diet is the sole cure. It’s been little moves here and there that only make a difference in retrospect. I haven’t wanted my happiness to be solely rooted in Baby anymore. And I’m getting better at it. I’m getting happier on my own! But something innate, deep, and real triggered with me right around the same time I took a trigger shot for my latest medical procedure to procure myself some offspring. Something that my family reminded me of yesterday when I told them that during our first round of IVF, my doctor retrieved 24 eggs out of my overworked ovaries (the average is 15):

Now I share this information that yes, I am going through IVF right now,  wary of and mindful of the risks: The risks being that You, Reader, get invested in my uterus and ergo, get disappointed when, in a few months time, I’m not posting some cliche baby announcement on Facebook. The risk is Your Pity, and I don’t want it. You should probably know that IVF isn’t even 80% successful, and that pregnancy is not a foregone conclusion. I’ve made peace with this. Finally. Please do so too.
But I share with you this small triumph because I’ve been making little deposits with myself to remind myself, as my mom said, that at my core, I’m not a Bad Person; I’m an Over-Achiever. I’m 24 eggs. I’m shooting stars, and medals of honor, and I’m fireworks and sunsets. I’m crying as I write this even though it is corny as hell (which might have something to do with the fact that I’ve been injected nightly with like a bajillion mg of hormones).

And I will be all those things, even if never become a mom and even if Donald Trump stays the president. So screw my inner demons, because tonight, I’m actually awesome.