I get a lot of emails: YouTube comments, Vimeo comments. Blog comments and replies. Twitter retweets and direct messages. Facebook comments. Facebook messages. Message board replies. And then there are the direct emails that come through my contact page .
At the AFOMO Conference back in April, a professional colleague and I were chatting afterward over drinks: “You have a lot of people rooting for you,” she said to me.
“You have no idea how many people are praying for you.”
Every time I shared my story, I cast that support net wider. So many of you comment and email to share your story and then share your support. I read every single one of them. I may not be able to reply to every one – but I’ve read and saved them in one form or another over these last 3+ years.
When the fear feels at though it would consume me, I reread the messages of support I’ve gotten over the years. I go through my blog comments. I dig through emails, your words of support woven tightly as though a security blanket of global interconnectedness. I read these more frequently because of my fears.
Because I am scared. I’m terrified. Of needles. Of mistakes. Of failures. Of not doing the best that I can. Of miscarriages, my body, of actually becoming a parent if we manage to pull of this feat of science and G-d.
And it’s fear that’s kept me from writing more here. But I’ve realized something very important, a sort of Catch-22. If I’m too afraid to write about what we’re going through, about what’s really whirling through my head at any given moment – if I’m too afraid to keep telling my story – then this vast virtual and international support net I’ve cast for myself grows weaker.
At a time when I need it now more than ever.
. . .
So I’ll tell my stories. No more long stretches of empty silence. They may be rambling and bordering on the incoherent, but at least I’ll have them to look back on as some record of this amazing and bewildering time in my life.
And thank you. Thank you to everyone who’s wished me good luck, sprinkled a little baby dust for me, mentioned my name in prayer or just thought a good thought for me over the last few years.
Right now, that collective support – this virtual cradle that spans the globe – carries me, sustains me, calms me and rocks me to sleep on these sleepless nights.