I must give credit to one of my clients, who unknowingly inspired me to write this blog post, as we had a session during which he shared his discovery of the phrase: “liminal space.” He was deeply moved by this “moving between worlds” energetic, spiritual, and embodied experience - leaving one to enter another, but not quite fully knowing what the one to come might bring. It is a powerful, often uncomfortable, period of transition.
It reminded me so, so much of one of the most painful years I’ve had yet, having experienced challenges with fertility and a miscarriage a couple of years ago. I write this blog post for two reasons: one in the hopes of it resonating with others who have struggled with fertility (particularly adoptees), and two to honor and acknowledge the profound wisdom that comes with our greatest challenges (cliche I know, but true!).
As adoptees, our connection to (or disconnection from) biological family is wrought with sorrow, grief, rage, deep longing, and fear. For some adoptees, myself included, having our own biological family can feel like an opportunity for healing, though it also comes with nerves and a well of complex emotions. I had my first daughter unexpectedly, and as one can imagine, I experienced all of the adoptee things: deeply compassionate sorrow for my birth mother and her carrying a child for 9 months to then say goodbye, a true embodied connection to my kin and my ancestors, the endless curiosity about what my daughter inherited and from whom, the absolute awe and disbelief that someone in my family looks like me, and the list goes on. Motherhood and parenthood, in general, seem to call upon us to heal that which will have the greatest impact on our children, so that we can honestly and authentically be present with them (with hopefully less of our own stuff in the way). My first daughter was and is the greatest catalyst for change in my life.
(I recognize, too, that when I talk about challenges with fertility, how fortunate I was/am to have successfully birthed a healthy child prior to those challenges arising.)
In the same vein of longing for connection with my biological family, my “roots to this earth” as a therapist of mine once said, I wanted to extend those roots further with a sibling for my daughter. I also had an Ecuadorian healer tell me, “well, that’s quite a burden to place on a little soul who has yet to join us here on earth.” He was right. A new soul should be welcomed here without expectation or burden, and that was/is so challenging as a human, as an adoptee, and as one who is struggling to get pregnant. Trying to tell someone struggling with fertility, “just don’t stress, just remain open and relaxed,” 9 times out of 10 does not help, nor does it work as simply as that. Though I wish it did!
In this process of trying to get pregnant, I learned that I have severe endometriosis as well as high blood pressure (go figure). Endometriosis is a disease and disorder with which tissue grows in places it’s really not supposed to, and it can affect any part of your body but is most famously known for affecting reproductive organs. It is also a disease and disorder that has yet to be fully understood, with no definitive cure, though is very common among menstruating people. It is now being explored as possibly an autoimmune disorder which would make sense to me. It is also not lost on me that I carry trauma from my birth mother’s womb, and my womb space experiences this inflammatory response (that’s another blog post for another day!). All this to say, that I was called to really learn about my body and to take exquisite care of my body. That was my first profound lesson: my body which has carried me through all of life needs my attention and care, always.
After almost a year of trying to get pregnant, I chose to have surgery to remove the endometrial lesions, which is actually the only true way to diagnose endometriosis, because it does not always appear on an ultrasound. One month later, I got pregnant. About two and a half months later, I miscarried. I wailed in the emergency room. WAILED. How could this have happened? I worked so hard physically, emotionally, and spiritually. I traveled to freaking Ecuador to meet with ancestral shamans in the mountains. Why? What did I do? What lesson am I to learn with this? Was I fated to endure something similar to what my birth mother endured? An irreparable loss? Was this karmic? Is there something wrong with me? Am I defective? Will I ever have a successful pregnancy again?
I remember feeling afraid to go to sleep that night, dreading having to relive the sorrow again when I woke up. Loss in the womb was just too painful, too tied to my deepest wound of severance from my birth mother.
As one can imagine, or perhaps you know personally, so much came up emotionally during this time. I was forced to sit with tragedy. I reckoned with the very human reality that no one is invulnerable to tragedy, that loss can show up in any given moment. I humbly acknowledged that present time is precious, and thus we can choose to be more careful about taking things and people for granted. I sat deeply, again, in the loss I already carried from losing my birth mother and my birth family. I sat in the loss that perhaps belonged to my birth mother: the loss of losing a child. I feared losing again. I feared having to fully surrender to the possibility that I will not be able to bear another child. I wondered how I’d restore faith after having felt betrayed by the universe. I was also determined to make sure that I did everything I could before fully letting go.
And then I leaned into what felt most vulnerable: I asked for help.
I asked for help from a fertility clinic, who led us through IUI (intra-uterine insemination) and ultimately, IVF (in-vitro fertilization).
The clinic was amazing.
I did, though, sit in an amalgamation of desperation, anxiety, persistence, and faith through every appointment. The IVF process is one with many, very intentional, steps. While I could appreciate the clarity of the steps and the details of how it all worked, I also mourned the loss of ease, simplicity, and “not having to think about anything.” Each completed task felt like a celebration, followed swiftly by feelings of uncertainty and fear.
Throughout the process, I also felt enormously grateful for modern medicine. What a beautiful thing that there are alternative options, a highly privileged one too, to help us. I also felt dread. What an exhausting and lengthy process for people to have to go through when they are struggling with fertility. I also really loved the humor of my fertility doctor. Thank god for laughter.
Throughout this time, I lived in the liminal space, between knowing I’ve birthed a child before and wondering if I’ll ever successfully birth a child again.
And it was so hard. It was surely a calling to learn during this time.
Why must we learn the greatest lessons alongside suffering? I am unsure.
Through many tears and lots of leaning on my community, I did end up successfully pregnant after our first round of IVF. I know that alone was a huge privilege. I also birthed a healthy baby 9 months later, which I know is the ultimate privilege and miracle.
Let it be known, though, with full honesty and transparency, that none of this process existed without an undercurrent of fear and uncertainty. And at one point, after constantly trying to console my anxiety, I decided to just allow it to hang out lovingly by my side. My anxiety and I together made decisions that felt like both the least distressful and the most safe option, given my circumstances. This self-compassionate and patient approach worked for me without overwhelming me. I understood that beneath the fear lived so much love and deep care: care for the baby and care for my own inner child.
So! Here is the wisdom I received from the liminal space that is the fertility journey:
- Asking for help is both an act of courage and integral to human well-being and survival (especially for those who have struggled to trust the safety of another person).
- Holding that which is energetically sacred to you deserves all of the care and protection.
- Feel, truly feel, the pain, so that it can move through you.
- Seek those who know how to hold all of your humanity, and treasure them.
- Honor your fears, especially when they have lived experience.
(This is not the same as “giving in” to them all the time, but rather, acknowledge their reality and get curious about what they need to establish new safety.)
- A soft, gentle patience can be unearthed beside fear.
- Our bodies are the vessels that carry us through life. Treat them as such.
- Spirit is always there, and we can ask for guidance.
- People who can just live alongside you, while you are grieving, are gifts.
- Belonging and enough-ness are inherent just by being alive, by being here on this earth (this one I received while in therapy, but it was revisited through this process).
- Sometimes, things just are. And that’s it. “It just is.” (e.g., the liminal space can be HARD. And it just is.)
- Fertility specific (I loved this from my fertility doctor): “Rachel, if stress alone induced miscarriages, we as a fertility clinic would never have successful pregnancies.”
CULTIVATING CURIOSITY: When have I experienced being in a “liminal space”? What did that feel like for me? What may I have been called to learn during that time period?
