Where Do I Fit In?

There’s a thought that everyone has had at some point, or many different points, or constantly, at all points.

Where do I fit in?

Maybe you were an only child, but all your childhood friends had siblings.

Maybe your high school didn’t offer electives that were your cup of tea.

Maybe you chose an unpopular major in college.

Maybe you were overqualified for your job.

Maybe everyone around you was having babies, and you weren’t.

Maybe everyone around you wasn’t having babies, and you were.

I don’t know where I fit in.

Jjiraffe posted a few weeks ago about expiration dates on infertility blogs, which led Elphaba to wonder what’s in an infertility blog, and to discuss a parenting after infertility and loss network.

For, well, years, actually, I’ve been asking that question. It’s mostly been just the small kernel of doubt and fear at the back of my mind, but since jjiraffe’s post, it started growing and demanding more and more of my attention. With Elphaba’s posts, it’s become this gnawing beast that won’t leave me alone.

Where do I fit in?

I asked myself so many times when I first started this blog, because I’ve never been pregnant, I’ve never started the adoption process, but somehow, here I am parenting. Is it fair that I’m trying so hard when we already have a child? No, she isn’t mine biologically or even legally, but she’s mine. Does that make any sense?

Everyone goes through their own struggles and deals with them in their own way, but I haven’t found someone who has gone through my struggles, no matter how they’re dealing with them.

I do feel better writing about how I feel and sharing it with you, but amidst all the ‘that sucks’ and ‘I’m sorry’ it would be nice to find a ‘me too.’

I never considered starting a ‘marriage after infidelity’ blog, because there’s no way I would have been able to connect with anyone else the way I have with infertility bloggers. Reading those stories would only have made me feel worse, but reading these stories, even the ones without happy endings, makes me feel like I do fit in somewhere, even if I still ask myself if that’s really true.

I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to stop asking, but for now, I have to keep whittling, and maybe one day I can make my square peg fit a round hole.


I hate them.

All the nagging little ‘are you sures’ and ‘whys’ and ‘what ifs.’ The tiny doubts that always manage to find a way in. The second-guessing that only serves to make me crazier. The fears.

And the shame.

When something bad happens, we all ask ourselves the same question at one point.

What did I do to deserve this?

If you ask that question enough, you’re bound to come up with answers. Maybe it’s something silly or trivial, maybe it’s something serious. Maybe it’s true, maybe it’s not. The more you ask, the more answers you can think up.

I thought I’d finished asking that. I thought I’d come to terms with what has gone wrong in my life. I thought I understood that it’s not my fault.

I didn’t force someone to do something if I didn’t know about it. I didn’t do something stupid to cause my ovaries to be cyst factories. I can tell myself that, but it doesn’t mean I always believe it.

So many questions. What if I’m not strong enough, or smart enough, or pretty enough? What if I’m not good enough? And then the question I despise myself for asking: what if I’m not the one who isn’t good enough?

But what makes that question so much worse than the others? Why can I put myself down all I want, but if I dare to question someone else’s suitability, I’m a terrible person?

Because I’m stuck with me, no matter what. I’ll always be here. I can’t escape myself. Because if it isn’t me, that means I made crappy decisions.

If I’d just stop beating around the bush and spit it out, I’d admit that there’s really only one question, did I make the right choice? And then I’d have to admit that there comes a point when it doesn’t matter anymore.

I have to stand behind my decisions, because a valid reason is a valid reason. Because the same things make sense to me now that made sense to me five years ago, or ten years ago. More things make sense, not fewer.

Maybe I can start asking myself not if I made the right choice, but if I made the right choice at the time. For the most part, I think I did.

I hope I can learn to have more faith in myself.