A Case for Saying It Out Loud

The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, red vans, and am I crazy? (TW)

Trigger warning: miscarriage

This piece was originally printed in The Retreat monthly print newspaper, March | Transitions, Issue No. 22.

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“You’ve read something which you thought only happened to you, and you discover that it happened 100 years ago to Dostoyevsky. This is a very great liberation for the suffering, struggling person, who always thinks that he is alone. This is why art is important. Art would not be important if life were not important, and life is important.”

—James Baldwin

They say that typically there is something slightly off.

I was sitting in the back of the classroom (typical for me) at a two person desk like they have in science classrooms despite being in a literature class (atypical).

The projector screen featured a photo of the book The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and although I could see the teacher’s mouth moving, I couldn’t hear anything. Not her analysis of the book. Not the students in front of me fidgeting. Not the flips of pages.

Tears filled my eyes as something or someone—not present—told me that my son’s name was Huck, and not to worry, he is coming soon.

I woke up from my dream, heart racing with wet eyes. This was almost two years ago—during a time when I was told I may not be able to get pregnant.

I told Evans about the dream and asked him what he thought of the name Huck Lockwood. I thought it was so cool, “like outdoorsy kid cool,” and he agreed. Evans had read The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn like most of us, and even one time accused me of stealing his copy when we first started dating more than five years ago at the time.

Since that dream, Huck has been at the top of my baby name list in my Notes app—and since then, whenever I feel a bit hopeless, I pray to a baby named Huck asking him to reassure me that he’s coming.

That’s the weird thing about growing up as a woman: you spend all of this time trying not to get pregnant and then suddenly you’re questioning your sanity as you journal to a baby you had one dream about, two years ago. Part of me does think I’m crazy, and the other part feels like I have proof that says I’m not.

For example, a few months ago when I was feeling particularly bummed out, I journaled to Huck asking him to send me a sign. Please show me a red van. At the time, I thought a red van would be an uncommon car—and even though I thought it’d be rare to see even one red van, I thought I’d up the ante: make it two! I wrote.

After, I ran out to run a few errands and admittedly, I was the hunt: I was looking left, looking right, looking in my rear view mirror, all for red vans. I was dissecting parking lots, car dealerships, driveways and drive-thrus. Nothing.

Later, I went out again to grab groceries for dinner—except this time, I was distracted, listening to a podcast and sending voice memos. Stuck in traffic, I looked up at the car in front of me (a silver something-or-other) and saw a license plate with 222 on it. Oh my gosh, I thought, how cool—my angel numbers! I went to take a picture when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw that a red van was sitting right next to me. And not just any red van. The reddest of reds. The vannest of vans. (see video below)

As traffic started moving, three more red vans (granted, leaning a bit more maroon than the first) came out from every direction. I starting laughing, and then said aloud, “Thank you.”

Months passed after this day and I was doing that thing they tell you to do: not really thinking too hard about getting pregnant anymore. I wasn’t tracking my cycle, and I’d begun questioning if I was, in fact, ready—after all, I’ve got a business to grow! I wasn’t eating healthy like I usually do, I wasn’t drinking mineral-rich teas throughout the day, or doing my Qi Gong. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t journaling.

Then in the beginning of January, I was on day 32 of my cycle, and I was PMSing hard. I wasn’t sleeping, my boobs hurt, and I was exhausted and angry because even coffee smelled awful. I wasn’t pregnant—I knew that—so I went to buy a pregnancy test. It was a formality: typically, every time I take a pregnancy test, I get my period a few hours later—and I wanted it to come already. I scooped a pack of the cheapest tests from Walgreens and went to Sprouts to get ingredients to make pho. I also had to pee really badly, so I figured: why not take the test in the Sprouts bathroom?

I’ve taken a small shop’s worth of pregnancy tests in my life—so when the plus sign came up on this one, I couldn’t breathe. I was in the Sprouts bathroom, for God’s sake, and someone was in the stall next to me. My eyes instantly filled with tears and I began to pace back and forth in the stall. I Facetimed my friend Elise with my camera toward the test and asked her to confirm that it was, indeed, a plus sign. A week earlier, I’d seen her in person and told her I didn’t know if I was ready anymore.

At this moment, though, we were both crying on Facetime and I’d never been happier (or more shocked) in my life.

I still wasn’t fully convinced the test was clear so when the meat counter lady—hair net and all—came out of the stall next to me, I ask her if she could read it for me. Confused by my tears, she said yes and asked if the plus sign she saw was a good thing. I told her it was, and then we started jumping up and down and hugging each other.

Elise suggested that I get a pack of the tests that say ‘pregnant’ or ‘not pregnant,’ so I do. I take four. Pregnant. Pregnant. Pregnant. Pregnant.

I couldn’t stop smiling through the rest of my day’s meetings and it took everything in me not to call Evans and tell him.

Of course I wanted to tell him immediately, but I decided that I was going to show him the tests at dinner—so I tried to play it extra cool when he got home and told me he was going to take the dogs on a walk. “Okay, cool, but not too long—I’m starving.”

As we sat down to dinner, I told him that I’d forgotten something, and pulled out one of the tests from my pajamas. I sort of blacked out after that—but I will always remember the way his eyes lit up. We talked about nothing else but our baby for the rest of the night.

The following week, at six and a half weeks pregnant, I went to Barbados with three of my best friends. Against the internet’s advice, I told them all I was pregnant anyway. I videoed their reactions and we watched a million times, cracking up more each time. That week, I told the entire island of Barbados that I was pregnant—mostly because if you don’t get an alcoholic drink they berate you, but also because I was excited and wanted to say it out loud. My friends and I took photos holding an apple seed (the size of my baby at the time) and all of them took drunk selfies kissing my belly.

My first prenatal appointment was scheduled a few days after I arrived home. They confirmed my pregnancy and then told me I could come back the next day for my 8-week ultrasound. I would meet Evans there at 9:30. We planned to get breakfast after and Facetime my family in Pennsylvania and surprise them with the sonograms.

I smiled the whole drive there imagining telling my brothers. I opted for overalls instead of my normal winter attire of sweatpants and a sweatshirt and put blush and a bra on. As I sat in the dark room with Evans next to me, we searched the screen for our baby. The woman conducting the ultrasound said it would most likely be a miscarriage, but that we’d need to talk to the doctor. Maybe we just calculated the dates wrong. We left the office with no photos.

For the next two weeks, still feeling all my symptoms and not bleeding, I scoured the internet and Reddit threads hoping to find stories similar to mine with a happy ending.

At first, I felt so stupid for being so excited and telling people so early. Everyone says to wait to tell anyone until you are at least 12 weeks! Because God forbid, something happens! But then what? Something happens—you lose your baby, you go through the brutal physical process—and you’re just supposed to act like nothing happened?

Moments like these are markers of transition: they change you, forever—and they deserve to see the light.

As I was thinking about our theme, Transitions, this month, I went back and forth a hundred times on whether or not I was going to share this experience. First, I thought about a take on transitions I heard a while ago: you are always transitioning, so don’t put so much weight on a season that you think should be measured differently.

I get it—we are always technically transitioning—but to act like one experience is not bigger or heavier or more exciting or life-altering than another? That doesn’t hold for me.

Why shouldn’t we acknowledge the moments in our lives that rock our world? Why shouldn’t we name them, make a playlist for them, or share about them?

And that’s when I thought about James Baldwin. I’m paraphrasing, but Baldwin tells us that sharing is important, because it makes people feel less alone. In order to share, we must first acknowledge. If we don’t recognize that we are moving through something big and meaningful, we are missing out on the multitude of knowledge that each transition can offer.

Transitions are opportunities—to learn new lessons, to open new doors, and to become a new evolution of yourself.

I say we label them. Feel their weight. Share their stories, in hopes that someone will feel less alone—and maybe that process will make it feel lighter.

If we don’t feel the impact of our shifts and changes throughout life, we are doing the world and ourselves a major disservice. We will never again be in this version of ourselves—so slow down. Be present. Maybe pausing in the shift will allow us to better support ourselves through the shakiest parts of the journey. Maybe it will open up wonderful possibilities which allow our next step to be more intentional.

To close us out, with the help of our articles and interviews from this issue, and with the assistance of slowing down to feel the wholeness of my own shift this month, here are the things about change that I feel to be true and supportive in any transition:

1 - Say It Out Loud: These seasons, whether big or small, require support. I’m glad I told my best friends. I’m glad I told my sister-in-law. I’m glad I told my friend, and our Editor, Mallory. I’m glad I told everyone on the island of Barbados. I was so happy during that short but sweet transition of 10 weeks of pregnancy. I celebrated it. And when it ended, I had people to lean on. People who checked in on me. So, say it out loud. Or write it, draw it, sing it. As you’ll learn in my interview with Chloe Jean Garcia, when she shared that the inspiration behind her charcoal rabbit drawings was her two miscarriages, it made me feel less alone. The two babies she has now gave me hope. You have no idea who you might help, or what stories of support you might hear by sharing. This goes for the ‘good’ transitions, too.

2 - Ask for Signs: The day I came home from my first ultrasound, I felt like an idiot. The red van sightings, dressing up, and telling my friends. I asked for signs anyway.
As I was walking my dogs later that evening I passed a father and son who looked around two or three years old. They walked up to us, and the little boy looked up at me, smiling and petting the dogs. As they walked away, I heard the little boy say something that I couldn’t make out. The dad then said, “Huckleberry? That’s a good name.”

A few days later, as I was on a pre-interview call with a future feature, I asked her about how she ended up in the career field she’s in. She told me that the turning point was when she had her miscarriage. “That experience helped me come home to myself.” The night before, as I was on the phone with Dr. Isabella (our January muse), I had written down: this experience is helping me come home to myself. Signs—whether you believe in them or not (or maybe especially if you don’t believe in them)—will offer you a moment of trust. In ‘bad’ times or ‘good’—they are signals that the path you are on and moving through is the right one.

3 - Mark it: With a trip, a treasure, or a tough conversation. Whatever you do—don’t ignore it! Acknowledge that something painful or something really fucking exciting is happening! In our cosmic travel columnist’s piece this month, Alyssa shares the places we go in the in-between, and the places that offer support through some of life’s biggest transitions. In our dating and relationships column, resident psychotherapist, Amy Dong, guides us into deeper and necessary conversations. Buying a new house, starting your dream job, getting married, getting divorced? Get yourself something special that will remind you of this season of strength or success. A few weeks ago, I went with my mother-in-law to an antique store and got a mug with flowers on it. It’s a symbol of warmth, growth, and support during this time. Whenever I look at it, I’ll think of that day I spent with her—full of grief, love, and gratitude for my community.

4 - Look to Nature: In our interview with this month’s muse, Kasia Stiggelbout, we’re offered a beautiful metaphor for transitions: rivers. Kasia explains how rivers are “sometimes subtle, babbling indistinctly, at other times rushing and turbulent, but always flowing. In moments of change, we have a choice: surrender to the current, leap in, and trust where it leads, or resist, clinging desperately to the familiar.” When you are confused about something that is happening, look to our greatest teacher, Mother Earth. Transitions are natural—especially nonlinear ones. The cycles of nature show us that such is the cycle of life.

5 - Find an Anchor: a mantra, a practice, a daily ritual that feels steady and supportive during times of change. Make it simple. Mine for this month is a mantra: this experience is helping me come home to myself. What’s yours?

________ to read this issue in it’s entirety and intended analog form, go to theretreatbycarley.com/newspaper