This is one of those posts that has been running around my head for a while this evening, and I'm not sure what form it is going to take.
Sometimes, I hate that I have the experiences that I have. Sometimes I hate that I know what I know. I hate that I watch with bated breath and count down the weeks for anyone I know who is pregnant. I hate when I see pregnancies become difficult. I hate how helpless it makes me feel. I hate how helpless I once felt. I hate that I can't fix it. I hate that I know what it's like to be in "Holland."
I hate that I will never be able to go through a pregnancy with blind anticipation. I'll never be able to plan. Because I know, deep down, that those plans can be broken. Upended. Forever rendered as futile. That things can change in an instant.
And yet through those experiences, I've found a purpose. A reason. Somewhere to place my heart and give of it. People, and miracles, who have forever changed me in more ways than my Holland experience did. People and experiences who have shown me more about the power of perseverance and the human spirit that I ever dared to know.
So it's a strange place to be. On one hand, hating that I've been there, and on the other hand not entirely able to wish to change it. For all of the good that did come of it. How do you explain that at the same time you hate something, you love it?