our anthem

“Our Anthem”

Thanksgiving 2019

Dear Sophia,

Earlier this year, you discovered a song by Rachel Platten called “Fight Song” that has become your anthem.  You know all of the lyrics and sing them at the top of your lungs, sometimes accompanied by your interpretive dancing/running/spinning, other times paired with the made-up hand motions you created with your daddy.  The first few times you had listened to the song, you had asked me what the singer was fighting about – but I explained it was more of what she was fighting for – her strength and perseverance in times of hardship, her way of finding herself and pushing through.  That song has been recognized over the years as one of hope amid challenge, used as theme songs for TV competitions, campaigns for cancer, championships, and even elections.  This year, more than ever (and not because you sing the song to me over and over), I have a reason to repeat the words like a mantra to myself.

Sophia, in short, this year has been tough.  As you have been insistent on inserting your independence, you’ve discovered things are not as simple as they used to be.  It has been more challenging to be you within our timeframes and expectations.  You have seen that your parents are not perfect – we argue with ourselves and each other, we are not always patient, and we hurt too.  You hugged me when I cried after I miscarried (without knowing the reason), and you wiped away my tears on Lily and Lucas’s birthdays.  Being four has meant more – more to comprehend, more depth and width of emotions, more energy and compassion – and you are constantly learning to adapt.

This summer I completed my master’s degree, but not without sacrifice.  I had doubled up on courses in the last few semesters and had to travel to school as well.  I lost out on large chunks of time with you and often (barely) functioned on just a handful of hours’ sleep.  Every time I had an errant thought about not being able to do it or that I was actually crazy enough to think I could, I would take a breath and reframe and restart – and seeing the proud look on your face the first time I put on my cap and gown told me it had all been worthwhile.

At the same time, unbeknownst to you, I was going through another cycle of IVF.  Daddy would administer my shots after your bedtime, but a couple of times you snuck downstairs and caught us, asking what the needles were for.  We would tell you it was medicine.  While we had a successful egg retrieval in the first round, they unfortunately yielded no embryos we could use, so we made the complicated decision to go through the process all over again.  And that process led to your baby brother.  As a result, we have felt incredibly blessed, and your aunt Sarah pointed out that he is like our double rainbow baby, following my miscarriage last fall.  He has felt very much like a miracle, kicking around in my belly to let me know he’s there, even while I am writing this.

Yet this is life, right?  And life has a way of reminding us that not everything is constant.  At 15 weeks pregnant, I found a lump, and by 18 weeks I had, unbelievably, been diagnosed with breast cancer.  We haven’t said the “c” word to you but will be explaining in a few short weeks about my illness and subsequent surgery, and what will happen next with managing the baby and treatments.

Somehow, I know that this life change that our little family is going through is the most significant to date.  The dichotomy of growing a life within a body that is fighting itself is nearly indescribable.  At times I feel I am unable to grasp the magnitude of what’s ahead, instead focusing only on the next step, for fear of drowning in the sobering reality of it all.  Other times, I feel like I was dealt this hand like a testimony of my truth.  So if there is any wisdom that I can impart on you from my experience this year, it would be:

Have conviction.  Believe in yourself and rely on your inner strength.  There were plenty of times I could have quit, while juggling being a wife and mother with graduate school and implementations at work and fertility treatments.  I cannot even tell you how often I have been told that I was “taking on too much” or “trying to do it all” – but when you go after the things that matter, you will understand it won’t be an easy road to get there, and that sometimes sacrifice is worth it.  If there is a single message I want to give you as your mother, it is that you can do anything you set your mind to.

Keep moving.  In the worst of times, it is hard to move in any direction, much less forward.  Those daily, mundane tasks we feel plagued by can seem so limiting.  Yet it is in those small things we find joy, and sometimes we just need to rediscover those little moments to keep us going.

Know your limits.  Once you have set your priorities, then you will know it’s okay to say no.  After I was diagnosed, it took me falling ill with a cold to tell me that my body needed rest.  I am usually planning our next outing or adventure, but realized I need to focus on getting well now so that I can do those things with you and your brother in the future.  Again, a sacrifice of sorts, but one with a clear objective.

Trust in others.  I have learned that you can rely on others.  I’m grateful for the team of doctors and specialists working together to develop my plan of care.  In addition, we have always been blessed with a solid family unit and support system, everyone from our church community to our friends and colleagues.  It is not a burden to call on others for help, something I know that is hard to understand at your age when you are trying to establish that you can handle things on your own.  However, one day you will need the help, so simply be thankful it is there and will be offered.

Sophia, I know that these tidbits of advice will only start to piece together as you grow older, but I also recognize how much you already understand.  So I want to remind you that I will always fight hard for you (and your soon-to-be little brother), and that you and your father have consistently given me strength that I did not realize I had.  And even though I cannot promise that we will not face difficult days ahead, I can promise that my love for you is steadfast.  Happy Thanksgiving, my dear, sweet girl, and don’t forget to count your blessings – they are always there, even if we are blinded from seeing them.

Love,

Mommy