Since 2011, my partner and I have been on an arduous journey towards parenthood, marked by a series of heart-wrenching losses I never anticipated when we eagerly decided to start our family six years ago. People often ask how we maintain our resolve during such an agonizing pursuit, particularly in the face of profound sorrow. As we leave 2016 behind and step into 2017, I find myself contemplating the meaning of genuine hope—the kind that drives us to take action and effect change. Many of us long for this kind of hope as we navigate the uncertainties of the new year.
Reflecting on the past, my resolution for 2017 centers on hope. Two and a half years ago, my partner and I left the hospital after giving birth to our son. Unlike the typical discharge stories, our car ride wasn’t filled with laughter or excitement. Instead, we sat in silence, grappling with the unbearable loss of our stillborn son, who had fought against a rare congenital condition. Our compassionate nurses had offered us the option to stay, but I was terrified that if we didn’t leave that morning, I would never leave.
The ride home was torturous, compounded by Boston’s rush-hour traffic. I closed my eyes, trying to block out the normalcy surrounding us. People in other vehicles were sipping coffee and tuning into NPR, heading to their everyday jobs, while we were engulfed in grief. How could they carry on while we were in despair?
A few months ago, we boarded a Southwest flight from Kansas, expecting to return home with our newborn son. I had brought every type of infant carrier and imagined flight attendants marveling at his tiny fingers. However, the mother who had chosen us for adoption changed her mind just before delivery, opting to parent him herself. Once again, we returned to our empty home with a meticulously prepared nursery, just the two of us. I put on my headphones, but no music played; I leaned on my partner’s shoulder, wishing to avoid conversation. Of course, I had no desire for pretzels or cookies—how could anyone ask such trivial things?
These two somber returns encapsulate a relentless cycle of IVF treatments, miscarriages, and the heartache of adoption. Yet, we persist, driven by hope.
“Hope” can be a noun or a verb, but neither captures the essence of what I refer to. As a noun, it remains abstract—if you asked ten people to define it, you’d likely receive ten vague interpretations hinting at trust and faith. Such a concept is elusive for someone pragmatic like me. Conversely, as a verb, hope often feels passive. We hope it won’t rain tomorrow or that our children will sleep in. This kind of hope can breed resentment. If things go awry, we may feel disappointed, even though we had no control over the outcome.
To me, hope and the will to fight are intertwined. Hope without action is blind expectation; fighting without hope leads to exhaustion. But when we fight alongside hope, we cultivate a steadfast belief in a better future, even if it requires enduring more pain to reach it.
Strikingly, both the loss of our son and the adoption falling through occurred over nearly the same timeline, roughly two years apart. Our son received a terminal diagnosis early in my pregnancy and passed away exactly 100 days later. During that time, we loved him fiercely, knowing we’d never raise him. Each day began with the sound of his heartbeat on our fetal doppler, spurring us to seek miracles. On the 100th day, that heartbeat ceased, ending our family of three.
Remarkably, it was also exactly 100 days from the moment we were chosen to adopt until we learned that the birth mother had changed her mind. In that time, we had grown to love a child we would never meet, whispering goodnight over great distances, only to find it abruptly ended.
Living one day at a time is crucial during a crisis; it helped us survive when a single day’s worries could have overwhelmed us. Yet, when making significant decisions about our future, we needed to broaden our perspective beyond the present to consider our past and future. As we are in our 30s, there lies the possibility of another 20,000 days ahead. The thought of living all those days without children fills us with sorrow far more profound than the 100 days we just endured. Choosing to protect ourselves from further pain by relinquishing hope only guarantees more suffering down the line. Thus, we continue to fight for our dream of parenthood, leaning on our family, friends, and faith as we navigate this journey.
This fighting hope—rooted in perspective—is what I am committed to embodying in all aspects of my life in 2017.
In the aftermath of the recent election, I found solace in a powerful essay by Junot Díaz in The New Yorker, which emphasized the necessity of hope alongside our struggles. He quoted philosopher Jonathan Lear, who describes “radical hope” as a belief in a future goodness that transcends our current understanding. This type of hope is not merely something we possess; it is a practice requiring flexibility and imagination. Radical hope is essential in combating despair, even when that despair seems justified.
Díaz’s insights resonate deeply, as they encapsulate the kind of hope I strive for—not only in parenting but in every facet of life where I believe in the potential for a brighter future. As we venture into 2017, it is crucial to hold onto our dreams, especially in the face of adversity, and to cultivate radical hope as we pursue them. Despite numerous moments of despair in our journey to parenthood, we have survived our darkest days and continue to fight because we refuse to abandon hope.
Here’s to 2017—a year where we unite in the fight alongside hope.
Summary
In a heartfelt reflection, Jenna Carter shares her journey of hope and resilience after experiencing profound loss while striving for parenthood. She emphasizes the importance of fighting alongside hope to create a better future, drawing parallels between her experiences of losing a child and a failed adoption. By committing to radical hope, Carter encourages others to pursue their dreams passionately, regardless of the challenges they face.