Raising a Warrior
I knew the day I found out I was pregnant that my life would never be the same again.
If you follow me on instagram, you may already know this story, but it begs being told again for the sake of today’s blog post.
I had just recently had the worst year of my entire life.
In the beginning of 2020 (a bad year for most, I’m sure) and I had a cascade of misfortunes strike me seemingly all at once. It was as if the perfect storm had brewed for that very moment (or I had put off way too many “check engine” lights, I still debate it to this day). For starters, I was experiencing sciatic pain down the entire left side of my body to the point where I was relieved when the coffee shop where I was working at the time decided to close for “safety reasons”.
That worked out for me, because at this point I could barely move.
I was no longer able to practice my daily yoga which had become a staple in my life. I had also just bought a shiny new beach bike that I was excited to start riding but found that I couldn’t because it inflamed the pain. I was just beginning to get a grasp on owning and running my own business for nearly 2 years, and I was 3 years into a marriage that definitely had it’s highs and lows.
By the end of 2020, I was recovering from spinal surgery due to a mysterious herniated disk (not even the doctors know where it came from), moving across the country with the help of my brother after an emotionally devastating (yet miraculously amicable) divorce, becoming alienated from all of our friends we once shared (or should I say, I found out who my real friends where) and I was saying goodbye to my years-long passion project and small business that was just starting to gain momentum. My ex husband and I were together for 10 years and trying to have a baby in those three years we were married, but for whatever reason we can debate until the sun comes up, I was unable to get pregnant. This was honestly devastating for me and a bitter icing to top it all off.
It was one of the most trying times in my life.
I was doing everything right, yet month after month, I was crushed by a little pee stick. I began to believe that I was physically incapable of carrying a child, despite coming from a very fertile family. I knew it didn’t make sense, but I made it with my nonsensical thinking. My age? My health? Maybe it just wasn’t a part of my destiny (even though it had been my biggest longing since I was a young girl, what God would keep such a desire of the heart?). I had so many unanswered questions and it was eating away at me. Nothing was making sense, so I tried to make it with my theoretical conclusions.
By October 2020, I was settling into my humble new beginning of being a single woman again when I had met someone new. When I got to Colorado, we were hanging out all the time. I knew I wasn’t emotionally ready to be in a serious relationship again, but I did what any human woman does when they’re just coming out of divorce. I looked for an escape. Something to prove to myself that I wasn’t hurting as much as I was. A nasty habit of mine that I had been trying to break of running instead of facing my pain was now being shattered in half, never to be resurrected again. As the story goes, one thing led to another and before I knew it, I was sneezing so hard on my sofa one night, I thought “this must be what a contraction feels like” and I was moved to take a test.
The next day I saw the positive sign.
My initial reaction was disbelief.
There was no way I was pregnant. Not me. Not after “doing everything right” for the last 3 years and nothing to show for it. Not after mentally coming to the conclusion that I couldn’t physically get pregnant. Not me. It took six more tests over the course of a few more days to finally accept what I thought was impossible.
I was pregnant.
And not with a husband. Not with a solid partner that I was sharing my life with. Not any longer. I was alone. Sure, my child’s biological father seemed excited about it at first, he was even offering a lot of grand gestures. But 13 weeks into the pregnancy, when I had asked if we could slow down so I could process everything that was happening, his true colors became clear and I didn’t hear from him again. I still haven’t to this day and next month it will have been an entire year. Message recieved. And I’m honestly thankful. We’re better off. Setting boundaries to protect yourself is an act of self-love and can be one of the toughest decisions you will ever make.
It took the course of my nine months of pregnancy to fully mold into the idea that I was indeed, going to be a mother just as I had always wanted, only not in any way resembling how I was expecting or planning.
Talk about a real twist of fate. I was meant to be a mother after all.
Her mother.
By the time I was giving birth to my daughter on a Sunday night, surrounded by nature and wildlife in my cabin in the mountains, it was clear that I had done the mental, spiritual + physical preparations necessary to accept my incoming role. Not just accept it, but welcome it. As if the four and a half hours of labor that I endured were a true initiation and spoke as a testament to that hard work. I was taking part in a ritual only known to other women. Other mothers. A right of passage. And as soon as that little girl was placed on my chest, I knew nothing would ever be the same again.
Since then, I take my role as mother very seriously. I don’t expect anything less from myself, although I will say it was a real journey to get here.
This was why I knew I was meant to raise Mojave to understand her strength. Her full name is Mojave Aria Reese. Two middle names, because just one didn't capture her full essence. Her complete name, together means “confident lioness who resides along the waters of the Spirit”. Much like the blood we share, her name is a mix of Irish, Native American and a family name. I chose her name with intention. I wanted her to know, at any time throughout her life, that she is strong. She is a warrior. That she can succeed where I have failed. That despite (and maybe even, dare I say because of) her circumstances, she grew strong. She knows where her Source lies, and she will always know to return to it in her time of need.
That is my hope, anyway.
As mothers, we do so many things for our children that they will never come to grasp the fullness of our hearts, but we do it all the same.
Some people may see the fact that she’s being raised without a father as a handicap. If I had it my way, she would have a strong, secure and stable father figure in her life. Speaking as a woman who was also raised without a father figure, I know the struggles she faces. I do my part to cushion the blow as much as possible. I know I can’t protect her from all the hurt and harm in the world, but I still will try.
Every day.
For as long as I live.
But I will say this: having gone through what I’ve had to in my life has made me the strong woman that I am today. I have grit. Something one can only gain from a life fully lived despite circumstances. I don’t wish growing up without a father on anyone, and it is certainly not what I had ever intended for my own children. I’m still dealing with the repercussions some 30+ years later of my own issues and I’ve gained a whole new concern for Mojave’s emotional wellbeing.
But life has other plans sometimes. It’s up to us to grow in grace and acceptance of where we are led. I would never, ever (not in a million years) change anything that has happened to me over the past two years if it meant I would never get to meet, raise and love this perfect being. That says a lot coming from someone who received quite a few massive blows over the course of that time and who analyzes every mistake she makes until the dead horse is rotting.
Now, I guess the only question to ask is which warrior is being raised?
Is it Mojave?
Or me?
I’d like to think it’s both. Mothers do lead by example, after all.
Until next week, may the road rise up to meet you.
D+Mo
