This picture was taken three years ago from today, when I found out I was pregnant. Though Chris and I were nothing but a collective hot mess, we'd decided months earlier that we wanted a family. I punked out initially and popped a Plan B, but once it was off my radar, just two weeks after his mother passed and only an hour before we were supposed to meet with a friend and her hubby at the strip club, a test came back positive.
As someone born with a nurturing spirit, I've wanted to be a mom since as far back as I can remember. I also wanted to be married. Chris and I were nowhere near ready for the load we took on in committing to both of those visions, and my first trimester was hellish proof. Physically, I felt great. Emotionally, I was a train wreck spewing black at Chris whenever the opportunity arose. Damn'ing him for being who he had already shown me he was when I wanted him to be someone else, someone I wouldn't regret bringing a life into this world with. Someone that didn't make me see myself and require me to grow in that truth.
Three years later, we're about a month from celebrating our one year anniversary, and it scares me how happy I am with the life and love that we've worked for. He recently noted that I don't post as much lately, and it tickled me because it's not that greatness isn't happening - it's just that I'm so enveloped in it when it's occurring that I usually forget to capture it for posterity. Instagram Stories didn't help the matter a bit.
I say all that to say, a quote has been on my mind heavy lately, and it's so fitting for the reflection that comes along with this time of year for me: "I know it seems like I write less poetry about you these days. But know this: I write you less now because I live you more."
I hope y'all are out here living.