So I’m writing a book about being overweight, about being diagnosed with PCOS, about thinking and believing that I would never have a baby. I’m writing about how, ironically, I was the only woman in my family who ever wanted a baby, yet the only one who could not produce one. And when I write these sentences and the narrative begins to take shape, the pain and misery of those years almost takes my breath away. It’s as if writing this story has me standing on the edge of something and I’m ready to fall. I remember those days when seeing my friends with their babies would make me want to barricade myself indoors for months. I remember being divorced and feeling like I was nothing, less than a woman, less than a human even, because I was barren and fat. And what did I have to offer anyone?
My story may not be extraordinary My story may not matter to most. But I have to go forward and believe that it will matter to someone, even if that someone is just me.