I lean back in the reclining exam chair, the white, coarse paper beneath me crinkling at the slightest movement.
The nurse reviews my medical history. "How many times have you been pregnant?" is the first question. It's quickly followed by, "how many children do you have?"
My responses seem to catch them off guard. I've been pregnant 8 times and have birthed 3 living babies. Each time I answer these questions, I'm overwhelmed with a rush of emotions and memories.
The intensity of the sadness takes me by surprise — it's the first thing I feel. Then, I recall the hope that each positive pregnancy test brought, especially after a prolonged struggle with infertility. But it’s a mixed bag - this hope is tainted by continuous anxiety.
Each day pregnancy found me obsessively focused on every sensation in my abdomen, moment by moment there’s an unrelenting fear that the pregnancy is being lost. Each doctor's visit was filled with dread. Would this be the time they couldn’t find a heartbeat?
With every loss, my partner and I mourn what could’ve been. We’re lucky to have skilled and empathic doctors and nurses by our side — experts who specialize in helping folks like us navigate this sort of journey. We’re fortunate to have excellent and affordable health insurance. Our loved ones traverse this path with us, sharing the joy and sorrow. Without these people and supportive circumstances, I’m sure I would’ve given up.
Every time I sit in that exam chair, I assume that enough time has passed. I believe the years that have gone by and the safe arrival of my three living children have created enough distance. I’m convinced the gratitude I feel when I hold my healthy kids will eclipse the pain. I’m certain that this time, I won't have to hold back tears. Yet, each time I’m proven wrong.
Not long ago, I came across a deeply moving story. The author shared her account of loss and loneliness. Though unique in its details, her experience resonated with me, taking me right back to my season of loss. I don’t know her specific pain, yet I found myself really connecting with her.
This isn’t that rare and I’ve seen it with other folks too. So many different stories, so many different experiences, yet so many moments that tug at our heartstrings. Often, all it takes is lending an ear to someone else's journey.
It's moments like these that really drive home how much tougher it is to go through difficult times and traumatic experiences alone. There's something comforting and grounding about feeling seen by others, hearing their struggles, and realizing that we're all in this together, journeying through life. It's in these sorts of moments that I find a deeper connection with my values, the person I aspire to be, and shared humanity.
You might be wondering why I'm telling this story when I usually tell stories about race and racism. Well, I see a link between this one and those I typically share. These experiences all reflect a recurring theme of connecting with others and a deep longing to be seen and heard.
But, I've noticed a unique pattern with race and racism. Whenever I open up about the fear and heartache that racism brings to my mixed-race family, the reactions are different from those I receive when I share other painful things.
It's common for folks to dismiss my family's experiences as untrue, or to sidestep the pain and shift the conversation to how this sort of thing doesn't happen to everyone. Occasionally, I'm accused of sharing these stories purely for personal financial gain or to make others feel bad. Yet, each time I’ve shared the story above, I’ve never received such a response.
Why? Why do we react like this? What's really troubling for me is that I've had similar thoughts myself.
I understand how it feels when the pain and fear that my family experiences due to racism is overlooked or misunderstood — how it intensifies the hurt. Despite this, there have been times when I've found myself quietly questioning whether another person’s painful stories and experiences about race really took place.
I'm all too aware of how easily past pain revisits me in the present — something as simple as the rustle of paper beneath me on an exam chair, a routine query about my medical history, or relating to someone else’s experience — and I’m instantly transported back. Yet, I've privately wondered if the racism people endured in the past should have less hold on their present lives.
Even though I tell stories about race and racism with the aim of establishing connections and helping to spark change, I've contemplated the possibility that someone else might be sharing their experiences of racism solely because they make a living teaching antiracism.
Reflecting on my racial background, I see a tangle of contradictions. The same kind and compassionate white people who showed profound empathy towards my struggles and those of others were also the ones I saw disconnect from racial issues and ignore racism.
Regrettably, this became part of the overall approach to humanity I adopted. One that told me I could be a compassionate, well-rounded person without needing to address or understand the real-life struggles of those different from me. But, I'm realizing more and more that when I can look away from the pain and suffering of others, I miss out on a crucial part of what makes me human.
Day by day many of us are trying to figure out what makes life worth living. Sometimes, the ideas and systems that we’ve constructed can get in the way of our finding a life-giving existence. The ways we create and sustain human hierarchy, is one of these obstacles.
Our group identities and social positions can make it difficult to recognize inequity and dehumanization in all its forms, and understand our connection to it. But one of the beautiful parts of being human is our ability to help each other see and embrace our shared humanity. If only we can open ourselves up to it.
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