I may lose my smile for a little while. It might not come as quickly or freely as it once did. Most days I may feel too tired for smiling; too tired for much of anything at all. I may lose my smile, but I hope I don’t lose you too.
I may lose my faith. Or at least versions of it as I shed the parts that are heavy in search of the ones that are light. I may feel lost and unteathered for a time, as I grope and struggle and strive to find peace again. I may lose my fast and gutsy answers, laden with confidence and surety. I may choose doubt instead of certainty. I may choose fear instead of freedom. I might get swallowed up in the waves for a time. I may lose my faith, but l hope I don’t lose you too.
I may lose my grit. I might decide that it all feels too hard and too sad. Inside, I may choose to cross my arms and sit this one out for a little while. I may lose my motivation, determination, and inspiration. Life might feel like much more like a plight instead of a dance. I may lose my grit, but I hope I don’t lose you too.
I may lose the girl inside that I once was. I may lose my interests, my passions and my dreams. Those all might get tucked away in a box on and put on the highest shelf for a time. I may forget that I was strong once and I may forget how to lift up my chin. I may turn into a ghost for while, feeling much more like a shell than a soul. I may lose that girl, but I hope I don’t lose you too.
I may lose the ability to see you. I might forget to listen to your laugh and really look into your eyes. I might start seeing you as a defeated battle partner. Really seeing you might make it even harder, because you were there too. You were with me and your heart broke too. I may lose the ability to see you, but I hope I don’t lose you too.
I lost them. All those babies with no names and no faces that came and went so quickly. I lost the chance hear them call me momma. I lost the chance to hold them. I lost the chance to feel beautiful and strong as I carried them to term. I lost the chance to scream and yell and fight to bring them into the world, breathing, wailing and filled with new life. I lost them. We lost them. But I hope I don’t lose you too.
I lost her. I sat in an empty nursery that used to be hers. I sat alone, my arms empty in a chair that for many nights, I once rocked her, sang to her, and snuggled her. I packed up her clothes. I boxed up her baby toys. I said goodbye and I let her go. I lost her. We lost her. But I hope I don’t lose you too.
I don’t know.
I hope I learn to smile again. I hope smiling feels easy and light and natural. I hope I find my faith again. I hope my soul once again feels tethered to something solid and strong. I hope I find grit and motivation and determination and inspiration. I hope it propels me to remember my dreams again; to remember the girl I once was. I hope I learn to dance. And I really hope I learn how to see you again.
And I really hope I don’t lose you too. I hope we can find each other again. I hope we can walk off the battlefield and I hope I remember to take your hand in mine. I hope we learn to smile together again. I hope we remember how to believe and how to dream. I hope we find our legs again and we learn how to run; but more importantly I hope we learn how to dance.