I started documenting my uncharted journey into the world of donor related families back in 2011. I was getting an introduction into the true meaning of modern family. It was a surreal, crazy and exciting time. So I started writing for my daughter. I was creating a personal journal for her chronicling our experience into the unknown. However, somewhere along the way my writing became less about our personal journey and more about how the story was changing me.
So now I’ve started blogging. And it’s harder than I anticipated. I thought it would be basically just like my personal journal for my daughter, except this would have an audience besides my little girl. However… the fact that there’s an audience…. or the potential for one (who knows how many people will really see this) changes everything. A little, at least. Enough that… I’ve almost considered stopping. I’ve been asking myself, “Am I crazy? Should I even bother? Will things I say upset my friends, my family, the donor conceived? Is this all just self-indulgence?”
Bloggers may very well be the most self indulgent, self-centered writers—capturing the mundane by personalizing each post ad nauseam. But what many don’t realize is that blogging—and journaling for that matter—changes the writer. Writing about my experience with donor conception has transformed me. Putting words on paper has made me a more mindful, critical thinker. Writing about yourself demands that you stop and take inventory. Am I proud of the life I’m living? Have I made conscientious and appropriate decisions regarding my daughter? Am I doing my part to make this world a better place to live in?
In my case, having just come off the heels of a medical catastrophe—that quite literally blew up my life—the answer was a profound and resounding no. I have been to the depths of hell and back. These days everything in my life points to de-cluttering, massive overhaul and reinventing myself. But I have learned that just because life blows up, it doesn’t always mean it will self-destruct; sometimes the explosion simply acts as a real life demolition.
Today I exist in a place similar to that of my daughter. I stand on half a foundation. Having been born not knowing half her family, my daughter doesn’t know where she’s coming from, and having learned that both life and family can be equally fluid, I’m no longer sure of where I’m going.
All I know is that I have a story to tell—and it’s one I hope will inspire others. As I become more comfortable sharing intimate details of rarely spoken issues, such as infertility and donor conception, I hope others will become more knowledgeable consumers, making more educated choices. After all, sometimes life’s balance is offset by one seemingly small decision.
As I cautiously pick up a shattered life, one piece at a time, I see myself in reflection. For the first time in years I can see beyond the battle scars, and I’m confident that things will be alright. That woman that I see in the reflection, she may look the same, but she is a new and better version of me. And today, she has a purpose.