December 29, 2020
While I’m finally embracing the journey and basking in the joy of motherhood, let it be known that the road was far from easy. It certainly didn’t come as the next logical step. (Neither is it every woman’s calling or only choice, for that matter.)
4 years battling an autoimmune disease that’s held me back in more ways than one, a pandemic in full swing and a career on hold, it obviously was not on my agenda. At least not yet. Then again, nothing in my life has ever unraveled in the most sensible of patterns.
I used to be on the other side of the fence—looking in and dreaming of what motherhood would be like someday. I had gotten so used to living my life with bated breath and constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop, that embracing this journey seemed preemptive. And while I would have preferred many other generation defining terms for my child over “quarantine baby” or “pandemic pregnancy”, I’ve realized that it doesn’t make it any less special. If anything, it makes it even more miraculous that this bundle of joy arrived when I needed it the most—with my health on a downward spiral, theaters shut down indefinitely, and a world crippled by an ongoing pandemic and all things dismal.
As the world continues to mourn 2020, a part of me is racked with guilt for celebrating what should otherwise be the happiest moment of my life. In my effort to be politically conscious and correct, I mulled long and hard over whether this miracle should be kept or celebrated in the shadows. Then again, 2020 taught me to cling on to every moment of joy and every glimmer of hope in order to survive.
And so here I am, holding this precious little healer close to my heart while sharing him with the rest of the world. I am desperately hoping and praying that 2021 takes a sharp turn for the better and offers some respite from the year that brought us all to our knees.
Wishing everyone a healthy, prosperous and peaceful 2021. Let the countdown begin.