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by | Dec 20, 2018

We shared with a few of our family and friends over the weekend that we’d be presenting to a birth mom—our second time.

We were nervous, but we stepped forward as a willing family for a baby girl that was already-born at just 25 weeks and who was waiting in the NICU for a family to take her home. The situation seemed almost-perfect. The timing could not have been better. Once again, our hopes rose that we could be her forever family.

Once again, we were not chosen.

This piece is a response to this situation and the weight of waiting, as friends make announcements and celebrate milestones. It’s pretty raw, and honestly not something I expected to write whatsoever. But here it is, for what it’s worth. If you find yourself in a pattern of waiting for something, or trying to understand what that’s like, I hope this speaks to you, too.

Is it possible to feel the weight of what never was,

or to miss the one you never once met?

For me, it was the child,

who, from far away, looked like you

yet quickly turned to grasp her Father’s hand,

disappearing into the distance.

Even though I knew,

I grieved as though you were gone—again.

Please don’t everyone tell me about

“A Plan.”

“A Point.”

“A Purpose.”

Like you are the Chosen One,

like I was not.

As if you know,

as if I never will.

I am only asking for time and space.

Those will heal me, they say,

but, lately, they seem to break me more.

Wait, am I the only one—

the only one affected by the gravity of this?

While everyone else is over the moon, weightless.


So I sit on the floor, longing for a call

that I am the next man on the moon,

among stars that were once a reflection in my eyes,

yet were always, impossibly, beyond arm’s reach.