Noah's Rainbow

  My husband has (accurately) accused me of always looking forward to the next thing to make me happy. When we were dating, I was in a hurry to get engaged. When we were engaged, I was in a hurry to get married. When we were first married, I was in a hurry to have a baby and buy a house. Now that we have a baby and a house, I’m finding myself in a hurry to have another baby. I’ve constantly lived with the fear of being left behind. I have been on a track in life where things have happened later for me than for my peers and friends. So I have found myself feeling like I was going to miss out on certain experiences and milestones because they weren’t happening for me when they were happening for everyone around me. No matter how many times I face this challenge, I just can’t seem to manage my own instinct to rush ahead to the end of the story. I can distinctly remember conversations with friends where I said, “If I just knew that I was going to finally meet someone and get married, I wou

       I used to think that pregnancy and motherhood after loss and infertility didn’t cause anxiety due to pride. In my own walk on this journey, I have tended to downgrade myself in my anxiety: I think I’m unworthy, I think I’m ill-equipped, I think I’m being punished. None of those lies seem rooted in pride. So I used to think, “I don’t have a problem with pride. I so often think poorly of myself while trying to navigate this struggle, so I’m really humble to a fault.” But the longer I’ve walked this journey, the more I’ve learned about how multi-faceted the concept of “pride” really is. Pride isn’t just an unhealthy elevated opinion of oneself. The definition also includes the unhealthy elevated view of one’s importance. Regardless of why we have this view of importance, it’s considered sinful pride. So when I believe I’m so unworthy and ill-equipped that God can’t extend a blessing to me, that’s pride. When I believe that what I want is more important than what God wants for me,

     As a teacher, I don’t typically like to admit if I don’t have the answer to a kid’s question. I’m supposed to be the expert, the authority they look to for answers to their questions. So if they ask me something and I don’t know the answer, I usually feel it physically: my body wants to reject the idea that I don’t have the answer. In reality, I know it’s totally unreasonable that I should have all the answers for my students. I also know that it’s helpful for them to see me grapple with things or not always have an answer- it gives them confidence to do the same in their own learning. And over the years, I have learned how to lean into this and get more comfortable with saying, “I don’t know! Let’s find out together!” when I don’t have answers. But it is by no means natural for me to do so. This is true in my personal life as well, and it reared its ugly head when my husband and I started walking the path of infertility. I was 32 when we started trying for a baby, and due t