![]() ![]() I planted each seedling into the ground and inspected them daily to make sure they were okay. "This is good work I'm doing," I'd think to myself, making space for things to grow. Every day I could, I plunged my hands into the wet earth and felt the dirt make a home beneath my nail bed. I set about enriching the soil with compost, manure, and nutrient-rich topsoil. That I had worked so hard to cultivate in the sunny spots of my kitchen throughout the dark winter. The garden, like me, was incapable of supporting the life I so desperately wanted it to. To my dismay, the earth in our new home had zero fecundity, a mess of thick clay and rock. The excitement took hold of the harvest yet to come now that it was time to plant them out. Knowing that soon I would be nurturing my home with something tangible and real in the face of my infertility was soothing. I had grown them with my small, infertile hands these things that I could eat and share with my partner, neighbors, and friends. The ground defrosts and softens while the seeds I had been tentatively caring for on windowsills are now strong-stemmed sprouts. At Christmas, the thought weighs heavy on me as I am consumed by my desire to create life.īut winter quickly turned to spring, and with it, life bloomed again out of the gloominess. ![]() And it's an odd sense of irony that strikes me, thinking about how I've avoided pregnancy like the plague for most of my adult life - and, if I'm honest, teenagehood. I don't believe motherhood defines womanhood. Walking with mother nature makes me feel encouraged to spend some time in my own garden. The only place that feels safe and calming is the outdoors and great open spaces. My feelings of isolation and shame are only made worse by the excruciating pain I experience at the hands of my syndromes and disease, reminding me how broken my body feels. All the while, I'm surrounded by a whirlwind of my friend's bountiful pregnancies and sweet children. And, anovulation - the absence of ovulation - is ever present and draining my mental health resources. My BMI is restricting my access to fertility care, which brings with it an immense sense of shame for not being a smaller size. The brief fling I had with pregnancy in my late 20s was a surprise that ended as abruptly as it started in miscarriage. I have polycystic ovary syndrome and endometriosis, which makes conception elusive and almost fanciful. ![]() I've hoped desperately to find myself pregnant, but month after month, I'm met with a cutting singular line on every pregnancy test I do. I know nothing about gardening, except that having one feels very important to me. Account icon An icon in the shape of a person's head and shoulders. ![]()
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