“Hope” is the thing with feathers. -Emily Dickinson
The ostrich (also know as the Common Ostrich) is a flightless bird. Beautiful creatures, graceful and comical at the same time. After a few years and a coupla infertility treatments, I was starting to wonder if this bird would every get her wings.
This blog was born out of a desire to bury my head in the sand. I could see infertility looming in the distance, but I was fairly certain that something– anything– would intercede and I would be fine. To a certain degree, it was a defense mechanism. Little did I know ostriches do not, in fact, bury their heads to hide. They lie low, they blend in, but they aren’t anywhere near as foolish as we think.
Along the way, I realized that this blog is about more than infertility. It is about disbelief. It is about anger. It is a multi-year study in grief and all its forms.
It is also an ode to hope. To mustering the strength to keep breathing. To letting go of what I wanted and accepting this one life I have.
It turns out that though ostriches are terrible at flying, they are exceptional runners. They find new ways of getting by, and so have I.
I am the ostrich. Coocoocachoo, and all that.