About Light + Shadow:

Bi-monthly reflections on the joys + aches of ordinary life, and what it means to be whole. As a subscriber, you’ll receive a poem or short story delivered to your inbox, accompanied by a prompt that you can use to cultivate deeper conversations with a partner, a circle of friends, or as inspiration for a journal practice.

Read the L + S archives here

2lbs, 13oz

(An excerpt from Unbecoming)

“2lbs and 13oz” the doctor announced after pulling her from my abdomen. I hardly had time to process the harrowing data before Lucy was whisked away to NICU — those bastards didn’t even give me the chance to hold her.

So, there I was, an empty-handed new mother, laying numb from the waist down, emotionally frozen from the waist up. And it would be 14 more excruciating hours before I held her for the first time.

But right before she was taken, the medical team brought her over, so I could, at least, briefly meet her — this person I had dreamt-up, conceived, birthed. But they didn’t even have the wherewithal to face her toward me. So, the very first time I met her, I met the back of her head.

I reached out and cradled it, rubbed it gently with my thumb, kissed it, and repeated, “I love you, I love you, I love you. I’m so glad you’re here.”

Then off she went, without me knowing what her face looked like.

After she’d been taken, I turned my head away from the operating room’s exit, closed my eyes, and silently wept. All I could think was:

“It’s even worse than I imagined …”

How was it that my very first act as mother was to give her away? I didn’t even know who took her. Where was she beyond all those doors, and hallways, and rooms within rooms? Would I be able to find her in an emergency?

But let’s rewind a bit.

I had had a blissful pregnancy. I was quick to get pregnant, never got sick, never got insomnia, experienced very little pain or discomfort as my body grew. And my baby developed beautifully. I loved being pregnant.

But 32 weeks in — just 8 weeks shy of Lucy’s due date — the rug got pulled out from underneath us. I showed-up for a routine visit at my obstetrician’s office, and in the quietness typically filled by chatter, as our vitals were checked and re-checked, I knew, without being told, that something was very, very wrong.

Lucy had stopped growing.

Or, at least her rate of growth had slowed to an alarming rate. I was sent to see specialists and get second opinions. I took test after test after test. Everything showed she had a strong heartbeat, strong brain activity, strong lungs, lots of fetal movement, a healthy placenta, a healthy umbilical cord, normal levels of amniotic fluid — everything that could be measured, was functioning normally. And yet, she wasn’t growing well, and no one could figure out why.

To say I was scared shitless feels like a gross understatement. And yet, I can’t find any words that come closer to describing my internal experience. Tormented, perhaps?

I ate everything I could, hoping my overconsumption would give her at least a fraction of the body mass she needed. And yet, her growth showed minimal progress each week. 5 pounds — that was my goal for her. I just wanted to get her to 5 pounds in utero — anything shy of that I’d accept, too. But tried as I might, she continued to hover around 3 pounds, gaining and losing body mass with every weekly weigh-in.

And then it happened.

On November 14, 2022, at our weekly check-up, our specialist told me that not only had Lucy lost weight, she was losing amniotic fluid rapidly. The environment of my womb was no longer hospitable, and she needed to come out. It was four weeks shy of her due date, and she barely weighed 3 pounds.

By that point, my fear was so tremendous, I had stopped feeling. My body had shut down, attempting to protect me from my overwhelming suffering. I was numb, but I also remember how fervently I quaked that day. From the time I was told that Lucy needed to come out, to the moment I laid on the operating table, from the tops of my shoulders, down into my thighs, a persistent quake ran through my body. Each time a nurse came in to check on me, they could see my shaking, and ask if I was cold. I had to repeat to them: “I’m not cold, I’m in shock.”

When the time came for surgery, a nurse came into my room and asked me to strip naked. “Even my underwear?” I asked. I could see the compassion melting in her eyes, “Yes, even your underwear.”

I marched down a public hospital hallway in a flimsy gown with my backside exposed. Beside me, my husband, fully clad in hospital gear, silently marched. The shroud of pale blue yet another barrier between me and the comfort I so badly craved. At the operating room doors, he was asked to stay outside in the hallway, while they prepped me for surgery. It felt like they had taken everything from me: my dignity, my safety, my person, my agency.

Inside, as I sat completely alone, exposed, and shaking, they applied an injection that would make me numb from the waist down. In a couple minutes, they told me they would apply a painful pinch to my abdomen to see if the treatment was working.

When they did, they asked, “Did you feel that?” I responded, “Feel what?”

I shit you not, I truly felt nothing.

As I sat, silent and alone, the operating team took no notice of my pain. They played heavy metal music in the background as they prepped equipment, shooting the shit in colorful conversation. My calamity was just another day in the office, and looking back, their lack of attunement was deplorable.

But then, there was beautiful Alva. The same nurse who had asked me to remove all of my clothing. In my fuzzy memory, I remember her speeding past me, then taking a few slow steps back, looking me directly in the eyes, and after muttering something like, “Oh, sweetheart …”, surrounding me in a big bear hug. She might’ve gotten in trouble for “not doing her job” and slowing down the process. But my god, did she see me.

After that, I was laid back on the table, and my arms were tied in a crucifix position. They had taken my dignity, my safety, my love, and my agency. And now, my freedom. But there was one more act of grace in this whole mess. Moments before the surgery was to begin, before my husband was admitted into the room, my doctor-slash-surgeon came in. She had been with me since the beginning, so she knew everything that I carried in my heart. She came in with a smile that beamed, but said nothing. She sat beside me, grabbed my tethered hand, and rubbed it gently. I stared at the ceiling, unable to cry, hoping I could escape into the clouds.

She has no idea what that gesture meant to me.

—

Before I had Lucy, I had always assumed I would never be able to bear the unbearable: loss, death, separation, rejection, illness, failure, you name it. Yet, here I found myself in a place where the worst possible thing I could imagine, was happening. And, here I was, still standing.

Unfortunately, this was just the beginning.

The journey of our first year together as a family would have many ups-and-downs. At one point, Lu would stop eating. Twice more, she would receive diagnoses that would take the breath out of our lungs. And then there were all the smaller shit storms in-between.

I don’t say this to engender sorrow, but to make a point. Of course, I had hoped my daughter’s birth would have transpired under more ebullient circumstances, but I also acknowledge that our suffering held-up a mirror to a part of me I didn’t know existed.

It goes without saying that in the wake of all our struggles, feelings of fear, panic, anger, agony, and dread, got really intense. I told myself that a better, stronger parent wouldn’t let circumstances like ours get to them. I felt weak.

And yet, at the center of it all, I saw someone, someones — a woman, a mother, a partner — keep saying yes. Over and over and over again, saying, “Yes, yes, yes. And yet again, yes.” I saw two people make the same supplication: “Just tell us what we need to do to ensure our daughter’s safety.” And then, they would do it. They didn’t mobilize in the absence of fear — my god, did their fear shatter them — they moved because they were scared, and because they were brave.

And, my god, that has to count for something.

Unbecoming: Facing the Dark to Find the Light

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I’m so glad you’ve found your way here.
Thanks for following along. — S.M.

About Light + Shadow:

Bi-monthly reflections on the joys + aches of ordinary life, and what it means to be whole. As a subscriber, you’ll receive a poem or short story delivered to your inbox, accompanied by a prompt that you can use to cultivate deeper conversations with a partner, a circle of friends, or as inspiration for a journal practice.

Read the L + S archives here

Dust, Part I

(An excerpt from Unbecoming)

They looked around, taking stock —
ash covered everything.

The tabletops, jars, underneath the rugs, and inside
the cabinets — covered. Places they didn’t even know
debris could go.

And as they looked around it was clear to them,
that even with a thorough sweep,
this house would never be the same.

They would have to become other people.
The people that live in this house.
And maybe one day she could accept that,
but for today, she grieved.

She grieved the dust on the tabletops.
She grieved the debris caked into the linens.
She grieved the soot that found its way into the
framed wedding photos, the spoiled food in the
pantry. She grieved the things that she loved that she would
never get back. At least in their previous forms.
She grieved her ruined life.

Even so, she found it within herself to pick-up the fallen chairs,
straighten the wall hangings,
dust-off the windows,
restock the pantry.

She would continue in the same way tomorrow,
and the next day,
and the next.

And in due time, it would resemble a home again.

But for today, this was enough.

—

In the following days, she took inventory, cataloging what she could keep, what she would throw away, what would need repair. Through blurry eyes, the portrait of home she’d painted long before her daughter’s birth started to go out of focus, til she could no longer see it.

With a new set of muscles forming from her heart, she picked-up what she could no longer keep, and brought it to the curb.

Days went by, then weeks.
The work of repair was exhausting, but she kept at it. There was no room for pleasure, no room for herself, only room to do what was absolutely necessary for survival —

to mend the bed sheets,
to replace the curtains,
to repair broken windows,
to secure leaking pipes,
to anchor collapsed floorboards,
to restore crumbling furniture,
to fix a seemingly endless list of to-do’s,
all while meeting her young child’s constant demands.

It took everything out of her — everything.
So, of course, she lost herself along the way.

But she would learn that that was the point.

Each day, as she reached the end of herself, she pulled from small, hidden reservoirs she didn’t even know she had. And when those dried-up, she found new ones, and newer ones, and newer ones. On and on it went.

But there was something particular she began to see forming from this vantage point. She saw that this slow, steady emptying was actually building her capacity for what life asked of her. It was increasing her ability to see herself for who she really was, and not who pain had painted her to be. She saw that she was capable of giving so much more than she thought she could. And she began to wonder if this total emptying was actually just making room for her to be wholly and completely filled-up by someone new. The type of someone that could live in this home.

She continued the work of scrubbing, and dusting, and painting, and repairing, and slowly she started to notice a new feeling emerging.

A deeper care went into the things that remained. More attention paid to keeping these things alive — a level of care she might not have paid, if not for tragedy.

She realized how much love she felt for what was left, how much gratitude she had toward every inch of her home, every inch of their journey. And something like life began to spark back within her, in a place that had been dark for quite some time.

It occurred to her that dust, and scars, and loss don’t prohibit a good life, but in fact, could be integrated into one. She noticed as, slowly, she became more and more comfortable being in, being with, the mess of tragedy.

She saw that all was not lost. That a canvas full of dings, and nicks, and marks, and rips, and scratches was still a canvas that could be used. Yes, the portrait of home she had painted had been destroyed. But the artist, the canvas, the brushes, and the pigment, all still remained. She had everything she needed to recreate it.

So, she picked-up her tattered canvas, her brushes, her pigments, and got to work.

Here, in the rubble, was a life still worth living.

Unbecoming: Facing the Dark to Find the Light

Purchase a Copy

I’m so glad you’ve found your way here.
Thanks for following along. — S.M.

About Light + Shadow:

Bi-monthly reflections on the joys + aches of ordinary life, and what it means to be whole. As a subscriber, you’ll receive a poem or short story delivered to your inbox, accompanied by a prompt that you can use to cultivate deeper conversations with a partner, a circle of friends, or as inspiration for a journal practice.

Read the L + S archives here

Moondust

(An excerpt from Unbecoming)

When life eclipses you in darkness,
find the speck of light
and let your eyes adjust.

Soon, what you thought you’d never see again
will be bathed in moondust —
a particular brand of perspective
not even sunlight can touch.

For this is the gift of grief.
The moon has phases,
but the sun stays the same.
And while its rays may feel like goodness,
it doesn’t call you anywhere,

quite like moonlight.

Illuminating phases we’ve been,
revealing phases we’re meant to be.
For this is the gift of grief —
to become.

So if you can, stay in the darkness.
Don’t reach for the light … quite yet.

Let the darkness do its work.
Let your eyes adjust til moonlight blinds you.

Life, forever changed.
Come to find, so have you.

Unbecoming: Facing the Dark to Find the Light

Purchase a Copy

I’m so glad you’ve found your way here.
Thanks for following along. — S.M.

Welcome:

Welcome to the Light + Shadow publication here on Substack! Below, you can learn more about me (Sarah), what to expect as a subscriber, and follow a few links to some recommended posts. Please enjoy!

My Story:

3 years ago, my daughter was born in a flurry of terror. Born grossly underweight, she struggled to feed, struggled to thrive. Feelings of fear, rage, and despair were my near constant companions during that time. And while their presence made sense, to me, given our predicament, they were often dismissed, inadvertently, by those I love.

And so, I turned to writing.

Within the privacy of a notebook, I was able to express the true nature of my suffering. The more I wrote, the more I noticed these painful feelings did not obliterate me. Rather, I saw that the same woman who raged, and suffered, and panicked, and despaired, was the same woman who loved, and who fought, and who braved, and who endured. I saw a woman being made whole in her shadows.

I began to wonder if I’d gotten my relationship to the darker side of life all wrong, too afraid to be defined by my weakest moments, or trapped inside my lowest feelings. But I’ve come to realize that by letting my pain and shame (my shadows) live alongside my joy and pride (my light), I create the richest, most meaning-filled, life possible.

I’m passionate about shifting our culture’s relationship to the things we attempt to keep hidden, which is why you’ll find me writing about both the joys and aches of ordinary life, and how both make us whole.

About Light + Shadow:

Every other month, you’ll receive a personal reflection from me in the form of a poem or short story. Each post will be inspired by a moment from my everyday life — a current challenge that may be tender, complex, and without a straightforward answer.

I believe there is wisdom to be gained when we allow ourselves to linger in this space, and more importantly, extraordinary love to be found, even in our most raw, most messy moments.

To help integrate the topics, each post will also be accompanied by a prompt you can use to cultivate conversations with a partner, a circle of friends, or as inspiration for a journal practice.

Getting started:

Here are a few recommended reads to give you a sense for what Light + Shadow is all about —

2lbs, 13 oz (excerpt from Unbecoming)
Dust, Part I (excerpt from Unbecoming)
Moondust (excerpt from Unbecoming)

Shop + Subscribe:

If you haven’t already, please subscribe to Light + Shadow to receive my posts directly to your inbox. You can also purchase my book, Unbecoming from my shop page.

Purchase a Copy

I’m so glad you’ve found your way here.
Thanks for following along. — S.M.