Can you do self-insemination at home ?
I’ve lost track of how many kind-hearted friends have sent me the TED Talk featuring Emma White, author and creator of the “Young Widows Society.” (If you’re unfamiliar with this society, consider yourself fortunate. Despite its light-hearted name, it’s a group no one wishes to join; entry is costly—not in looks or age, but through a life-altering, heart-wrenching loss.) In her talk, Emma emphasizes that we don’t ever truly “move on” from our grief; instead, we learn to move forward while carrying it with us.
“A person who is grieving will laugh and smile again,” she states in her TED Talk. “They will move forward. But that doesn’t mean they’ve moved on.”
This idea seemed straightforward enough. I’ve been navigating widowhood for 1,138 days. My acquaintance with grief started even earlier when doctors informed me that my young spouse had only weeks to live, prompting me to mourn the life we would never experience. After all this time, I believed I understood what it meant to move forward rather than move on.
If you had asked me just a few days ago, I would have confidently claimed I was progressing with my grief. In these three years, I had purchased a new house, started two new careers, and even dabbled in dating. I allowed myself to feel joy and sorrow during significant dates, openly spoke my husband’s name, and recalled the highs and lows of our time together. I was following Emma’s advice: moving forward with my grief in hand.
But in reality, I wasn’t. Not truly. As I watched others advancing in their lives, I felt like I was lagging behind.
This past weekend, the man I’m dating (let’s call him that for simplicity, even though “boyfriend” still feels odd) invited me to take my kids on a hike with him and his son. I eagerly accepted for two reasons: first, it was a great excuse to pry my kids away from their screens for a while, and second, I was trying to navigate the lingering effects of a particularly fierce wave of grief. I hoped the fresh air and a break from our pandemic routine would do me good.
I assumed “hike” meant a simple walk along a familiar path to reach a defined destination, then turning back. (This explains why I thought wearing platform sneakers was acceptable.) I believed hiking would be just like it had always been.
However, after about seven minutes on the path, my boyfriend took a sharp right and began climbing uphill through the trees. My kids and I followed him, uncertain of what lay ahead.
Before long, we found ourselves hopping over rocks to cross streams, scaling boulders with the help of tree branches, and squeezing through tight stone crevices. For most of the hike, I struggled to maintain my footing, completely unaware of our destination. Eventually, we arrived at the top of a waterfall, gazing down at all the hikers who had taken the well-trodden path—the path I had always known.
In that moment, a combination of grief, a scraped knee from a jagged branch (because seriously, who wears platform sneakers on a hike?), and the dizzying height made the phrase “moving forward with grief” resonate differently for me. I recognized something I should have grasped long ago: I understood the “with grief” part well, but “moving forward” was not what I thought it meant.
I had assumed moving forward meant merely doing things. And indeed, I had been doing—buying a house, pursuing careers, dating. But when I reflected on it, all that “moving” didn’t feel genuinely forward. I had shifted houses, sure, but only down the street. My new place was in the same neighborhood, and my running route hadn’t even changed.
I embarked on two new careers, yet they were hobbies I had pursued long before becoming a widow. Neither pushed me out of my comfort zone. And while dating was uncharted territory (especially online dating—I’m still amazed by that world), I often shied away from anything that required altering any part of my life before loss.
The truth was that my steps forward were superficial. Instead of moving ahead, I was merely shuffling side-to-side within my comfort zone, in a life I had built with my husband. Even though he was gone. Even though the person I was with him was no longer there. And even though my grief took up more space than that old life allowed, I understood I no longer fit.
It was only when I unexpectedly veered right and ventured into the unknown—into a situation I wasn’t prepared for—that I realized “moving forward” encompasses more than just living and laughing after loss. It certainly includes learning to laugh again, as that is the first step. But standing atop that waterfall, I came to understand that “moving forward” also means recognizing that your new path will look different after loss, and allowing yourself to grieve that fact. It requires leaving behind what no longer fits and fully embracing what does. Sometimes, it means taking that unexpected right turn instead of following the familiar route—even if you’re wearing completely unsuitable shoes.
For more insights on navigating this journey, check out this post on home insemination. Additionally, resources such as Intracervical Insemination can provide valuable information on related topics, while Facts About Fertility offers excellent guidance for pregnancy and home insemination.
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In summary, moving forward with grief is a complex journey that involves recognizing the changes in your life post-loss and fully embracing a new path while carrying your grief with you.