“You should never be a mom.” “You would be a horrible mother.”
Not sure the number of times I heard these lines through my childhood, but it was often enough that these words took root in my life and grew deep.
I never wanted to be a mom. I never wanted to have kids of my own. It wouldn’t be good for me to have kids.
“You will be a wonderful mom someday.”
The two counselors sat across from me at Recovery Week telling me these words.
They didn’t know the words I had been told.
They didn’t know my womb had been discarded as medical waste a year prior.
Perhaps these words were the beginning seed. A seed growing space. Space for my body to share a secret it held for 30 years.
I didn’t know I was a mom.
I partook in a delicious fondue dinner tonight with three lovely women with whom I have been intentional about doing life. All four of us have lost babies during pregnancy. All three of them are moms to living children.
Listening to all their stories. Parenting struggles and frustrations. Precious and hilarious things their children say. Navigating different age stages and life changes. And so many more things…
It was a time to practice holding both. I love and treasure all their children like they are my own nephews and niece. I want nothing more than to hear these stories. I desire nothing more than to be present with these moms telling the stories. And yet I also have a place that wells up inside me with tears of grief for my son I never got to raise. Wondering what kinds of stories I would have shared about him.
Driving home drowning in these thick waters of grief. Laying on my couch struggling with allowing myself permission to grieve not having a child when I spent so many years saying I never wanted one. Realizing that was not the real me, but a facade fashioned by those words fed to me as a child.
The real me is the woman who emerged when my body shared its long held secret. The woman who feels inside her the life that lived there so long ago. The woman who feels like a mom. The woman who dreams of what it would have been like to have been able to raise her son. The woman who grieves the son she lost and the life-giving womb that is no more.
The real me has the space to ask the hard questions I might never have answers to in this life and dream the wonderful dreams that will never come true this side of heaven.
Would there have been someone with enough love and kindness to take in a 13-year-old mom and her baby? What would he have looked like? Would this have been the thing that rescued me from a life of abuse? Would he have said the hilariously funny and brilliant things that my friends’ kids say? Would I have been a fun, playful mom?
What toys would he have loved to play with? Would I have been a wise, discerning parent? What books would he have enjoyed the most? What struggles and frustrations would I have had in parenting? What sports would he have participated in?
Would I have loved my son well? What interests would he have had? What desires would I have had for my son as he grew into adulthood? Would he have been married by now?
Would I be a grandmother now?
LOVE was the word given to me at the beginning of 2017. I never could have imagined what this word would mean and the place it would hold in my life as the year comes to an end.
The sharing of this secret has created a space to feel, to remember, to imagine. Most importantly, though, it’s a space God and my son are filling with love like I’ve never experienced before.
Victory Suimara is a sculptor of words. She is a poet and an aspiring screenwriter. When she is not writing, she creates by playing with paints or playing on instruments. She is a victim and survivor of sexual abuse and sex trafficking, a wanderer and explorer on a sometimes treacherous and sometimes beautifully scenic journey of life. More of her word sculptures can be found here.
You are very brave to tell this story. Thank you for sharing it – what a wonderful way to think about motherhood – the role of mothering the unborn and the lost. Bless you.
Thank you, Claudia. It is a painful, life-changing, and amazingly wonderful experience of motherhood. Blessings to you also. 💙
Deep sorrow caught in my throat and burned there as I read of your welling up tears as you listened to other mothers’ stories. I see you on that couch of grief and hear your sobs. May God continue to hold, comfort and mother you as you open your life to the wonder of your questions. God bless you.
Thank you, Christine, for honoring the story and for this beautiful blessing. Blessings to you also. 💙
I also would have been a 14 year old mom. I grieve for that 13 year old you, and me. And for the children taken. Thank you for your courage in speaking your story. You were a good mom. And you love him still.
I grieve with you and for you and for our children. Thank you for your courage in sharing too. Helps to know we are not alone in these experiences. Thank you for your kind words of blessing. 💙
Thank you for summoning up the courage to share your heart. My heart hurts for you. I know from experience words from others can pierce our souls. As young and even old women we are sometimes easily lied to. You are a wonderful mom and your love for your friends and their children is a precious gift for them. God has your son, just as He has you! He loves you and grieves when you do. Praying your heart will be lighter now that you’ve shared this precious part of your story with others. May God comfort and bless you. Love, Laura
Laura, thank you for your beautiful and kind words honoring and blessing my story and experiences. Holding on to and treasuring these truths you have spoken into them. Thank you for your prayer. This experience and holding space for and grieving this part of my story has transformed my heart in a healing way. Love and blessings to you as well. 💙
Dear Christine, I echo everything that Laura Corwin said above. Bless you. Your story rocked my whole day when it came out…I remember to pray for you and the harm you endured. I love your heart to be whole, healed and at peace. Bless you.
Thank you for noticing and holding my story. Thank you for your kind words and your prayers. Thank you for your care and desire for my heart. These things mean more than you could know. Hopeful and prayerful for the opportunity to share more of this story with you.
Dear Victory, you are well named. The courage you display is much. You allowed your body to illumine a dark secret. You allowed your heart to make room for the love of a child. You allowed your voice to bear witness. You allowed love. Bless you indeed.
Thank you for these kind words. It is good to be reminded of these things in such a beautifully written way. Hanging on to and treasuring these statements to remind me it is well, especially on days like today when grief looms large and painful. Blessings to you. 💙
Victory (what a stunning name!), thank you for sharing this incredibly vulnerable piece of yourself here in your beautiful writing. It evoked anger over those who spoke such vile, untrue words over your young heart, gratitude for those who affirmed your gift to mother, heartbreak over the loss of your son and anticipation for when you are reconciled in the Kingdom, and joy to imagine the myriad of ways you encourage and love your friends and their children. Thank you for writing here.
Susan, thank you for your kind and honoring words. Thank you for reminding me that anger is an appropriate and valid thing to feel about those words spoken to me. Blessings to you. 💙
I was tearful the first time I read, and that was true again today as I read it. Thank you for sharing yourself here Victory. Such a beautiful example of how resurrection can some, unexpectedly infusing life in a place that just feels dead.
Tracy, thank you for sharing your tears. Thank you for giving me space to share here.
“Such a beautiful example of how resurrection can come, unexpectedly infusing life in a place that just feels dead.”
Hanging on to these words, a beautifully accurate description.