Potentially controversial statement: all births are traumas. I looked up the definition of trauma, however, and my thesis isn’t quite substantiated by the internet. The American Psychological Association defines trauma as, “…an emotional response to a terrible event like an accident, rape, or natural disaster. Immediately after the event, shock and denial are typical. Longer term reactions include unpredictable emotions, flashbacks, strained relationships, and even physical symptoms like headaches or nausea.” Births aren’t all terrible, I imagine most feel birth is miraculous, I personally fall in that camp. It’s also offensive to even throw birth into the same Venn Diagram as natural disasters or rape. And so, I’d like to amend my thesis, but, I’m lacking the appropriate word to replace “trauma.” Birth is maybe one of the most animalistic, biological events of modern humanity, and it wreaks seismic changes upon a woman physically and mentally. What do we call that if not trauma? And I’m not necessarily talking about the giving birth part, which can be wildly traumatic. I’m currently on beta blockers and yet a lump is developing in my throat as I recall my birthing experience. However, I’m more so talking about postpartum, a season whispered about with the somehow same level of embarrassment associated with menstruation and menopause. I’m so thankful I’m living in an era where these topics are becoming far more widely discussed and normalized. But postpartum still connotes trace amounts of shame for me. So this written account is helping me codify postpartum as a completely normal, non-embarrassing part of human life. I also want to pen this into existence as a life raft for anyone who has felt emotions and wants to feel less alone with them. 

I’ve always dealt with anxiety. Back when I was 7 and found myself tapping doorknobs a specific number of times or feeling so homesick I’d hyperventilate, I had no idea this was anxiety, I figured I had a unique affliction that made life overwhelming. Want to know what helped me discover I wasn’t uniquely afflicted? Reading. Reading books proved to me that I wasn’t alone. Reading validated my humanity, and it still does today. Thankfully, we are living in a time now where mental health is a much more commonplace and destigmatized topic. But the cuts of stigmatization run deep. 

I had a joyous and anxious pregnancy. I had some difficulty on my pregnancy journey. Once my daughter was born, I expected my anxiety to dissipate since most of my anxiety had been related to successfully birthing a healthy child. Wrong. So very wrong. After laboring for 23 hours, pushing for 2.5, and then ultimately enduring a C-section, I was drugged beyond comprehension and could barely keep my eyes open once Claire was out and cleaned off. I think I slept for about 2 hours, maybe, before that exhaustion and elation gave way to a new form of anxiety: postpartum anxiety. I remember I was having an anxiety dream in the early morning hours once we were in our hospital room with baby Claire, and I jolted awake, completely disregarded my incision and IV hook up and lunged for Claire’s hospital bassinet, desperately needing to check her breathing. I remember it was dark and my imagination played a cruel trick on me that she was bluish colored. I panickingly turned on the lights, again, getting up out of the hospital bed when I was strictly instructed not to do so, and awoke poor Alex who was finally getting a little bit of rest after a dramatic 48 hours. Claire was completely fine, a perfect peachy pink color, her tiny little swaddled chest rising and falling rhythmically. Relief washed over me, but as I hobbled back into the hospital bed, the pain from the surgery registering, I couldn’t go back to sleep. And so began my PPA. 

Those first few months were hard. I had never felt any greater purpose and yet I had never felt such crippling anxiety. If you’re privy to the modern motherhood community, you’ve probably heard the term “mental load” or “invisible load.” My understanding of the term is that it refers to all the invisible decisions someone has to make individually or actions someone takes on behalf of others that go unnoticed or happen solely to keep a household running.  The invisible load is exhausting, compounded by a newborn “sleep schedule,” or lack thereof, and it’s a recipe for extreme emotional fragility. Claire was an unpredictable, sparse sleeper as a newborn into infancy. I now recognize that what I think vastly influenced my PPA was the fact that my mind never had a rest during this stage. I’d be exhausted from the ceaseless invisible load: should I feed her now? Is it okay for her to sleep this long? What should I pack with us to take her to my parent’s house? When should we leave based on her sleeping patterns? Did she nurse enough? Why didn’t she nurse longer? Am I producing enough milk? Should I try a different swaddle? And then I could never depend on Claire giving me a predictable sleep pattern at night, sometimes she’d sleep 2 hours at a time, sometimes a stretch of 3-4 hours followed by increments that got shorter and shorter as morning dawned. I couldn’t shut off my mind, and because of the unpredictable rhythm of her sleep, I dealt with insomnia. Bottom line, I wasn’t sleeping which I of course know is extremely common for new parents. But I think the why for my lack of sleep was at the root of my PPA: there was never any end in sight for me in terms of my mind resting or getting a rest, nothing reliable at least. PPA mostly impacted my sleep, or lack thereof, but it also made taking my baby anywhere feel like an impossible feat, or me going anywhere without her also feel impossible. Claire rejected a bottle for the first 3 months of her life so that also made leaving her feel impossible for me. And, Claire had separation anxiety tendencies starting at 2 months. She’d scream and cry if anyone else held her. Most parents would probably relate when I say that hearing my baby cry causes a visceral physical reaction in my body. I start sweating, my mind goes blank, I clench my jaw, and I go into half survival mode half caregiver mode whenever Claire cries. 

So, I wasn’t sleeping and I was too afraid to go anywhere or do anything. I was a prisoner, a prisoner to my own fears and literally a prisoner to my home and to my baby. Nothing was my own: my body wasn’t my own and time was never mine. It was the perfect recipe for anxiety and depression.  I felt like I was plummeting down an endless hole and there were zero ledges to grasp onto along my fall.  The only person who brought me comfort was my mother.  I don’t want this to portray my husband as an unsupportive monster because I genuinely think he was going through his own version of Postpartum Depression at the time and he did not know what to do with me.  I don’t want to excuse partners who haven’t done the birthing from not being able to support their partner in the ways they need, but I will say that I’ve come to learn that the experience is different for the non-birthing partner.  It just is. They’re more removed by default. I think I am a fairly low maintenance person emotionally, so when I was crying at nearly the mention of my daughter’s name, my birth story, her feeding schedule, her sleeping schedule, I think my husband was so caught off guard by these reactions that he was stunted and tried to navigate me as he would want to be navigated.  My mother made me feel safe to be an emotional wreck and she was the only one who I felt tolerated my daughter’s colic with calm, confident conviction. My husband was just as new to this as I was, I needed someone who endured this wild test of sanity and lived to tell the tale. I also often learned small maternal behaviors from watching my mom with my newborn. She sang certain songs or repeated certain calming phrases rhythmically that would often settle Claire and settle me. Though it was a trying time, as I look back on it now, I recognize what a gift it has been to have my mother’s integral support and guidance along my own motherhood journey. Sure, as time progresses and I develop my own mothering style there are times when this doesn’t feel like a gift, but egos removed, it is. I also had one very close friend in particular who gave birth a few months before me to her second child, who I could turn to with any sort of mothering question or emotion. She would always make me feel like we were in this together and that no thought or question I had was ever off limits. She and I would troubleshoot our baby’s sleep schedules, and we still do this today. I am eternally grateful for her friendship. We first connected over losses, and then we had the opportunity to deepen our connection over our precious gains. I am lucky enough to say I have an army of loving friends, but to me, it was crucial to have this one friend with whom I could share the experience so rawly. 

I had my mom, I had so many loving and doting friends and family members, and I had this beautiful, healthy baby. Why did I still feel this constant plummeting and emotional unbalance? It felt like something was chemically not right inside me. I found myself looking at older parents who had grown children, pining for the peace they must feel knowing their children are self-sufficient humans who can feed themselves. Then I’d feel an aching guilt for wishing time would fast forward. It was a vicious and cruel cycle. I lost my appetite and obsessively read Facebook group posts about baby sleep. I took literal notes on Claire’s every move and especially her sleep habits, or lack thereof. I became a mad scientist in trying to determine the most effective recipe for getting Claire to sleep longer. 

After 2 months of this, I got myself help. I started seeing a therapist and a psychiatrist and they both explained to me that I was experiencing pretty classic symptoms of PPD and PPA. I got on medication for both the depression and for insomnia. I started noticing emotional stabilization after about 2 weeks on my medication, but honestly, sleep for me didn’t improve until Claire was about 6 months old, and I’d still and actually even now still, have off nights where my anxiety robs me of my ability to fall asleep. 

As for Claire and her sleep, she continued to give us unpredictable naps and nighttime sleep.  I know some parents go a full year or years even with enduring sleepless nights. I discovered that this wasn’t something I could tolerate, it was detrimental to my physical and emotional health. When Claire was 3.5 months old she hit the 4 month sleep regression where she woke every 45 minutes crying. Claire was not the type of baby where if she woke crying, we could go in and soothe her with a pacifier or by rubbing her back or belly. She needed to be held and rocked and put back to sleep by only me. Sometimes my mom was successful but this was rare and it was also rare that my mom was around in the middle of the night anyways. I was extremely reluctant to ever let Claire cry. I could withstand about 5 minutes of her crying before my entire body started sweating and my stomach would cramp up. So, sometimes I’d give her 5 minutes to see if she’d stop before I’d go in. I don’t think she ever did stop after 5 minutes, maybe once or twice. I remember always flirting with the idea, often on mornings after sleepless nights when I felt crazed and lonely, of trying “sleep training.” As I often do when anxious and indecisive, I polled friends and family and took to the internet obsessively. 

Finally, the night before we were due to leave for the beach on our first family vacation, something in me switched or snapped and I told Alex I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t go in every 45 minutes that entire night. I was ready to try sleep training. I consulted my one particular friend and she talked me through the entire process. There are different methods of sleep training and I knew the only one that would be effective for Claire would be me not intervening. So I went with the cry-it-out method but with set limits. The method I decided to adopt is sometimes referred to as the 3 day sleep solution: set time limits for the crying, don’t intervene until morning, and ideally it should take 3 days or less. My time limit was 25 minutes. If she cried longer than 25 minutes, I’d go in. I talked the plan over with my husband and, since the crying didn’t impact him as negatively as it did for me, he agreed to be the one to listen out and watch the monitor so I could put on noise canceling headphones and try not to hear it. I bawled for about 30 minutes as I felt so guilty for committing to letting her cry and then even guiltier that I wasn’t strong enough to hear it and would be drowning out the sound. I knew I was at a point where I had to put my own oxygen mask on first, and I knew I wasn’t going to be the mom I wanted to be if I had continued sleepless nights. I also felt that this couldn’t possibly be good for Claire, the lack of sleep. 

The first night I didn’t sleep, and I checked the monitor constantly, but I did keep the noise canceling headphones on and listened to sleep meditations. In the morning, Alex reported that the longest she cried was 28 minutes, 3 minutes past our limit, but not terribly. I went to get her from her crib and when I saw her happy, sweet face, I felt a wave of relief wash over me. She was fine and we could maybe do this. We may be able to sleep again. Enjoy life again. We left for the beach that day with my family. Luckily it was a big house so everyone else couldn’t really hear Claire’s crying, but the second night the longest she cried was 25 minutes and she gave her first 8 hour stretch of sleep. By night 3, there was no crying. I think this is when the next chapter of motherhood began for me. Though it was a mostly positive next chapter, the trauma of those sleepless days and nights manifested obsessive behaviors in me. I became anxious about her schedule, I kept the monitor on and couldn’t turn my eyes away from it (I still am like this by the way), and though I tried to come off as if I was cool with having a flexible routine, it sent me reeling if her sleep schedule was altered. 

I guilt spiral when I reflect on my anxiety being so wrapped up in Claire’s sleep. I shame myself quite often for harping on it- why do you care about her sleeping? You should be thinking about how wonderful it is when she’s awake! I think most mothers can relate to consistent plaguing guilt. In a single day of motherhood, I’d say two recurring emotions I feel are gratitude and guilt, sometimes in isolation of each other, sometimes simultaneously. I’ve come to accept occupying the space between two polarizing emotions. Sometimes I think about trying out a hypnotist in hopes of eradicating my inner mom critic, the one that often tries to rob me of truly ever relaxing. But then I think about how my inner mom critic might not be as damaging as it is exhausting. I think my inner mom critic has taught me to consciously love myself and value myself more. It propels me to live a more mindful life, one where I pause to remind myself that I do deserve joy. One where I give myself feedback and help myself reflect on why I might have certain reactions. I think my inner mom critic also motivates me to always strive to be a better mom to my girl. I think what I need to work on is recognizing that I can always be striving to be better, but that I can also always be enough for her. 

My husband and I want to have more than one child. We deeply value having siblings of our own and want to give that gift to our Claire. But of course, the thought of experiencing PPD and PPA again is daunting to say the least. It’s sort of downright terrifying and almost feels a little bit self destructive. But I do feel that if and when it presents itself, I know what tools and supports help me cope.  I’m much better at communicating through my anger, frustration, and sadness as a result of going through PPD and PPA. Penning this has also helped me distill the experience down to its core. 

Fortunately for me, I wasn’t swept away by the undertow of PPD for my child’s first year. Once I got the help I needed and some more reliable patterns of sleep, I was able to be present and enjoy every single moment with my baby. Like every pitfall or torture along the motherhood journey, this too, passed. And I can honestly say, I don’t think I’ve ever been happier. Which brings me to my final conclusion on all of this, that my period of darkness made the light feel all the more luminous and warm. I still try to stop and celebrate when I accomplish taking my daughter somewhere new entirely on my own. It might seem so insignificant to anyone else, but to me, as someone who once felt like that was impossible, it still feels like such a success. What is life if not a balance of opposites? It seems we can’t have one without the other. So, always an optimist, I suppose I’m grateful for my trauma.

It’s taken me a full year to muster the energy and courage to pen this reflection. I told myself I wouldn’t write about this until I was healed, and deep down I knew I wouldn’t be healed until I had a healthy baby of my own. Now that I am fortunate enough to say that I have a healthy baby of my own, I know that being “fully healed” is an illusion after loss. Though my hope and gratitude have been restored by my successful pregnancy and birth, the anxiety and fear that permeated my pregnancy and that will undoubtedly seep into my next pregnancy, god willing, are the wounds of loss that lay undressed in the wreckage of my heart.

I’ve never known a single thing with any certainty in my entire life with the exception of one thing: I have always wanted to be a mother. This was influenced by both nature and nurture.  I am naturally maternal and many of my other life choices have reflected this quality such as my career as an educator.  But I was also heavily influenced by the example of my mother who always made motherhood seem like the most fulfilling, joyful (and maddening) role one could ever have. Seeing how excited my mom would get for our triumphs and successes, how she could feel our pain when we were hurting, or how she advocated for us so fiercely if our opportunities or experiences were ever slightly cheapened or diminished, made motherhood seem passionately purposeful, and that’s what I have always sought, a life of passionate purpose. I have ZERO judgement for any women who choose not to be mothers.  Hell, sometimes I wish it wasn’t my truth that all I’ve ever wanted was to be a mother, because it sure isn’t easy.  But this has always been my truth, and so when Alex and I experienced our first miscarriage, I felt broken and despondent. 

For some reason I always knew I was going to have trouble having a child.  Maybe it was due to my family history as both my paternal grandmother, who I seem to take after quite a bit, as well as my mother, had troubles at first, though they went on to have healthy children. However, when I got pregnant after our first attempt, I thought maybe that plaguing fear was really my trusty old friend anxiety masquerading as instinct. I tried to not let myself get too excited after taking that first pregnancy test, but any woman seeking to become pregnant can probably tell you that once you see that positive result, it’s nearly impossible to keep yourself from dreaming.  I immediately dreamed of holding my precious baby, and thought about whether it would be a boy or a girl as well as the qualities I would wish for in him or her, and imagined Alex as a loving and doting father.  I wanted to shout my news from the rooftops but restrained myself to sharing with my immediate family and my best friends.  I scheduled my first doctor’s appointment which was a call that made me feel prematurely in completely unknown territory. Time crawled until that first appointment.  I was already a superstitious person but it felt like my superstitions took on an obsessive compulsive nature that was both distracting and unhealthy as I ticked off the days leading up to this appointment.  The day finally arrived and I’ll never forget the crushing heartache I felt when the doctor’s tone of voice shifted from congratulatory to tired sympathy. Always an optimist, I asked if it was possible we might hear a heartbeat after waiting the suggested two weeks, maybe I wasn’t as far along as we thought. “I’d be surprised if we did,” she said evenly. Alex gave me the kind of look a mother gives their child who had just taken a fall, his eyes were both trying desperately to convey a sense of calm but they were also searching my face to see how I was going to react. Tears welled and poured out of my eyes uncontrollably.  The doctor handed me a tissue box and left the room so I could get myself together. Alex wrapped me in an embrace and, always a realist, tried his hardest to communicate cautious optimism.  

The next two weeks were a slog of agony, anxiety, obsession, and sadness.  I Googled, I posted on pregnancy forums, I clawed at the internet, desperate to unearth a story similar to mine that ended in a healthy pregnancy.  I found some because, afterall, isn’t that one of the beauties of the internet?  You can always find someone or something to confirm or encourage something you want to believe. I felt like I was wearing a mask, especially at work.  I hadn’t told anyone at work that I was pregnant.  My boss and closest co-worker, both people I consider my very close friends, knew something was off with me. I wasn’t ready to share with them because I was stuck idling in this holding period, waiting to see if miraculously my baby would revive, but knowing most likely it wouldn’t.  There is something indescribably disappointing about housing something dead, something failed, in your own body. My job requires a lot of dispensing of encouragement and positivity, and though I was able to muster this, it was an exhausting charade.  We had social obligations within these two weeks, one being an extravagant charity event, something I typically look forward to every year. I was instructed to behave as if I was still pregnant during these two weeks, so attending this glamorous event and restraining myself from indulging in the overflowing displays of oysters, sushi, and champagne felt like salt in my wound. I couldn’t numb my sadness which in hindsight is probably a good thing, but the clarity of sobriety magnified the darkness of my reality.  

Ultimately the two weeks passed and Alex and I returned to that dreaded office, a physical place that still nauseates me when I visualize it. I knew immediately by the doctor’s face and silence as the glow of the ultrasound monitor illuminated her still face. I then had to make a decision as to how I wanted to remove my miscarriage: a procedure, pharmaceutical, or naturally.  My HcG levels were still through the roof, which explained why I was still experiencing symptoms such as morning sickness. My body was desperately clinging to this baby, and therefore the doctor felt if I chose the natural course I could be looking at weeks, maybe months.  Alex helped me to decide and we felt if I could avoid a surgical procedure that I ought to, so I went with the pharmaceutical route.  

I ended up telling my boss and closest co-worker since I knew I would likely need some days off from work. They were wonderfully supportive and gentle with me. I know it’s selfish, but I was so sad and so uninterested in wearing the mask that I wished the whole world would be put on pause so I could guiltlessly retreat into my own sadness. All I wanted to do was curl up in bed and watch The Golden Girls, a show I’ve always oddly taken such comfort in. I kept longing for something like the scene in Disney’s Sleeping Beauty where the three fairies put the entire kingdom to sleep while Aurora is under the spell so her Prince can conquer Maleficent. If my kingdom could just take a solid 3 day nap, surely I could mourn my loss and get on my way to moving on. Then I decided the solution must be a blizzard of epic proportions! A dazzling and deafening winter wonderland to blanket my county, nothing devastating or dangerous, just something to snuff the hamster wheel for a few days so I could pass my loss both physically and emotionally without feeling like I was an absentee to my life and responsibilities. I checked the weather forecast feverishly. 

I took off of work the day I decided to take the pill, which by the way, is not administered orally… this was very strange and uncomfortable. I laid down towels on my bed and turned on the movie Splash.  Tom Hanks movies also bring me immense comfort. I administered the medication and then hauled myself into bed and waited… waited for my loss to exit my body and to take my grief with it on its way out. After about an hour I had severe cramping and nausea but nothing else was happening.  I waited and waited.  After about 6 hours I became angry.  I wanted to be done with this.  I was no longer interested in hosting my loss.  I started blaming the doctor for encouraging me to take the pharmaceutical route, even though I knew it was really my own choosing.  After being given the run-around by my practice’s front-of-the-house, I finally got in touch with my doctor who assured me the pill worked for most women but every woman was different.  She suggested trying another dosage.  For some dumb reason I agreed to this.  I took off another day of work and tried again only to experience the same result.  I’ve never felt like such a failure.  I was angry with my body at this point.  I called my doctor again and aggressively requested to schedule the surgical procedure.  We scheduled my procedure for March 10th, which was about a week away. I then trudged through the next few days with impending dread and a hollow engagement with my daily routine.

I remember that I woke from the procedure in a dreamlike state, feeling the warmest and fuzziest sensation I had felt in months.  The anestesia was definitely still in my system and I was clinging to that effervescent high.  The recovery was really not bad at all. I know it is a very common procedure.  My pain wasn’t physical, it was emotional.  Again, I longed for that highly unlikely March blizzard to shut down the buzz of everyday life so I could have a little more time to lick my wounds and regroup mentally. Well, in a way, that blizzard did happen, but it was not a harmless, sparkling wonderland, it was a harrowing global pandemic called COVID-19.  

On March 13th, 3 days after my procedure, schools in VA closed for the unforeseeable future. As narcissistic and delusional as it is, I immediately felt pangs of guilt for my secret blizzard wish. Being incredibly privileged and fortunate, the pandemic brought for me a number of silver linings. By no means am I happy the pandemic happened, but always an optimist, it offered me the gift of time I needed to retreat and reflect, and to sit with my sadness. 

Once my body resumed its cycle, which took 3 months for me after my procedure, Alex and I started trying again. I had two other miscarriages. One was a chemical miscarriage, meaning it was super early and the only reason I knew it occurred was because I was obsessively taking pregnancy tests well before I should have been. The second was a natural miscarriage that was pretty painful physically. Shockingly to me, this one wasn’t as painful emotionally.  I think this was the case because I had already endured this experience and learned how to somewhat manage my sadness.  I have a matchless support system which I have found to be absolutely paramount to mending, recovering, and restoring. My family, especially my mother, and my friends checked on me continuously and kept me distracted with positive, goofy, socially distant diversions. They made me feel worthy of love during a time when I’m not so sure I loved myself. I am eternally indebted to my support system and hope to return their loving kindness to them in both times of sadness and joy.  After this third miscarriage I found myself feeling both resolute and helpless. I sought answers through both science and stars.  I had Alex get blood tested to see if there was anything wrong with him, something I had already done a few years previous for myself, knowing I wanted to have all information available to me before attempting to start our family.  Simultaneously, I visited a psychic who provided an eerily accurate depiction of my character and told me she saw children in my future, be them biological or not.  This gave me both hope and fear.  

Finally, after too many snafus with my OBGYN practice and feeling like I was having trouble accessing my doctor, I decided to switch practices and this was one of the most empowering things I did for myself during my pregnancy journey.  One of my closest friends, who actually became one of my closest friends due to our shared experiences with pregnancy loss, highly recommended her practice.  The minute I met my new doctor during our consultation, I immediately felt a connection and as if she already was making me feel a little more in control of my fate than my previous practice had ever shallowly attempted. I know control is a complete illusion in general and especially with regard to reproduction, but my new doctor laid out for me several actions I could take to improve my chances and to rule out anything that might be causing the losses.  

Being the good student I am, I got to work on all of her suggestions. I also implemented some changes of my own that I felt would benefit my mental health such as avoiding testing early, practicing yoga daily, and adopting several positive affirmations I would chant to myself whenever my negative thinking would encroach.  I waited at least two weeks after my late period to test and wouldn’t have done so had it not been for the unmistakable nausea I was feeling for three days in a row.  Additionally, and this is the honest truth, I had a vivid dream of a little girl smiling and smiling at me.  She had short brown hair and sparkly eyes that crinkled and gleamed when she smiled.  Her whole face smiled.  She wore a purple turtleneck shirt.  That was it.  That was all there was to this dream and yet I knew in an instant, this was my daughter. It gives me a lump in my throat recalling this now. I don’t even know what I believe spiritually, but this was as if there was a glitch in the system.  My subconscious had somehow traversed the planes of reality, dreamspace, and the afterlife /beforelife to reveal to me my daughter.  Still suffering the trauma of loss, I woke with both hope and fear.  I knew this was her, but would I ever meet her in this lifetime? Both the nausea and this vivid dream, or vision really, propelled me to shakily take out a pregnancy test that following morning. I remember my heart racing as I waited for that test, just as it had done with all the previous tests.  As my palms grew sweaty, I created a mental plan for myself if the test would be negative.  Something in me knew this was different though. The picture of that little girl’s face danced through my memory as I waited.  Her smile that seemed to be a smile just for me told me that it would be okay.  I took a deep breath and looked down to see two deep red lines.  My heart raced even faster.  I ran and got a second pregnancy test, the kind that says “pregnant” or “not pregnant,” a test I had avoided due to its brutal and humbling curtness. “Pregnant” flashed on that little screen and I ran into bed where Alex was still sleeping to hold up my urine covered prizes with shaky elation.  Alex gave me a big hug, but understandably so, clung to cautious optimism.  

My doctor wanted to see me early due to my history, so at 6 weeks along and insanely nauseous, I went in for my first ultrasound since my first loss.  The pandemic was still in full swing so I had to go alone and masked.  I couldn’t even look at the ultrasound monitor. I told my doctor to tell me to look only if it was good news.  I already was trying to hold back vomit due to my 24/7 morning sickness and now that was compounded by nervous nausea.  My doctor, whose calming bedside manner is unrivaled, said, “Hannah, I want you to see something,” and as she pointed to a steady flicker on the screen she flipped on a switch and I heard that, “thump, thump, thump, thump.” There is no other word to describe that sound besides miraculous.  I wept uncontrollably.  

I then went on to enjoy a beautifully healthy pregnancy with zero complications. I did have HG (hyperemesis gravardia), which is morning sickness times a million, but luckily for me it only persisted until my 16th week. I loved being pregnant. I’m not sure if that was because I was so exponentially grateful to have a healthy one after losses, or because I was able to work from home in my stretchy pants as my belly burgeoned, or because my husband was also working from home and we got to eat lunch together and take late afternoon walks, or because I was so miserably ill for the first 16 weeks that once I started feeling human again it gave me a new lease on life. I probably won’t know the exact recipe for my pregnancy bliss until I’m pregnant again, but this I know for sure, I loved feeling life growing inside me. I’ve never felt so powerful. Sure enough, my dream vision was confirmed, we found out at 13 weeks that we were having a girl. To make matters even spookier, I got myself a pregnancy psychic reading when I was 8 weeks and she predicted I’d have a girl, born on May 26th (past my due date), and that she’d be independent, creative, and bossy. I gave birth at 11:42 PM on May 26th to a thriving, healthy girl who has already shown us in several non-verbal ways that she is the one in charge! She is the absolute love of my life, my soul mate. She smiles with her entire face, her squinty eyes sparkling just for me.

My story had a syrupy sweet happy ending, one that I express gratitude for every single day… even on the very hard days, and trust and believe there are many of those in the newborn stage! As I write this my heart aches knowing some women do not have as happy an ending as I have had, and there are plenty out there still seeking to be fulfilled as childless mothers.  These women will always be in my prayers and my wishes.  It’s a battle that is so often privately waged. And besides needing the catharsis, I’ve been motivated to share my story to raise awareness about miscarriage and pregnancy loss and to destigmatize it as something that needs to be kept secret.  Some women would prefer to keep it private and that is perfectly respectable in my eyes as well, we grieve how we choose to grieve.  For me, I needed support and I found my strength in my own vulnerability.  

Through my loss I gained invaluable lessons as well as coping strategies that will benefit me for the rest of my life.  I think one of the most valuable lessons I learned was how to be a better emotional support to someone grieving.  I learned this through the non-examples and examples set for me amongst my support group during my time of emotional need.  There are several things that people said to me that were not helpful to my grieving process. I am going to outline them below.  The purpose of this is NOT to chastise.  I know that anyone who tried to support me was operating the best way they knew how and that their intentions were positive and pure.  The purpose is for me to reflect on why some things are not helpful and to express how I learned to be a better emotional supporter because of these non-examples:

• “Everything happens for a reason:” though sometimes I think maybe I am a fatalist, it’s a cheap attempt to explain the chaos and it’s really not kind to leave someone hurting with the question of, “well what was the reason?” I know if you’re religious you likely believe God has a plan so this statement might slip off your tongue with personal conviction.  Not everyone shares those same beliefs and when in the throes of grief, hearing this statement made me wonder what I had done to deserve this purposeful hardship. I learned to never say this to anyone, even if I believe it. 
• “____ (fill in the blank with another woman’s name) had a way worse experience than you, she was _____ (fill in the blank with details regarding a different miscarriage or pregnancy loss story):” comparison is the thief of joy and the guillotine of courageous vulnerability. Only a couple of people shared this sentiment with me.  Loss isn’t a competition. Loss is loss and your grief is your grief. No one should ever make you feel weak or guilty for grieving. 
• “Miscarriage is so common:” though this is unfortunately true, it’s not very comforting to someone going through one. Being reminded that I was just a number in a statistic made me feel stupid for being sad.  

There were probably other unhelpful comments that were meant to comfort, but those are the ones that stand out to me.  I learned that people say these things because they don’t know what else to say and they want you to quickly stop being sad because that is uncomfortable for them.  I was guilty of this before learning this truth.  I have vowed to get comfortable with being uncomfortable, especially when providing emotional support to those I care about and love.  There were also exemplary things said to me by my deeply loving support system:

• “I am so sorry you’re going through this:” whenever I heard this it validated my feelings and always felt genuine.  
• “I love you” or “You are loved:” so simple and so powerful when someone is hurting. 

In addition to learning how to be a better emotional support, I learned to let go of some things that weren’t serving me.  Notably, I let go of superstition because I learned it’s my anxiety dressed up in mystical regalia.  Let me share a brief anecdote to illustrate how I learned to let go of superstition: Alex wasn’t allowed to go with me to any of my appointments during my healthy pregnancy with the exception of my 20 week anatomy scan.  The hospital where I was having my scan done called me at 7 PM, which felt odd, and said they were making an exception for mothers-to-be for this scan since it was such an important scan they wanted the mothers to have one support person with them.  The only other appointments Alex had been present for were appointments with very unhappy results.  My formerly superstitious self decided that Alex was bad luck and maybe he shouldn’t come with me to the anatomy scan.  Typing this out, I cannot believe how ridiculous this sounds, and even more ridiculous than it sounds was that I truly convinced myself at the time that bringing my own husband, the father of the baby growing inside me to the most important scan of the pregnancy could somehow be potentially perilous to our baby’s health.  I almost didn’t let him come.  I reached out to one of my closest friends, the same one who shared my experiences of pregnancy loss, and she quite bluntly told me that superstition is a manifestation of anxiety and that I’d be robbing my husband of a deeply momentous opportunity, an opportunity that could help him feel more connected to our unborn child. I listened.  Alex came with me to the scan and guess what?  His presence didn’t thwart the success of our pregnancy.  It ended up being the most joyful appointment I had of the entire pregnancy.  Alex was so adorable asking the technician to zoom in on certain parts and asking countless questions about the baby’s anatomy and how the machine worked.  He said it finally felt real to him after that.  I almost kept this from him because of superstition.  Never again. 

I also learned to let go of expectations, as best I can. My birth story was nothing as I expected (more on that in a future post) and I certainly did not expect to have postpartum depression, which I did about 6 weeks after giving birth (also more on that in a future post). My pregnancy journey and motherhood thus far have both taught me to take life day by day, and when it comes to a newborn and infant, hour by hour. A comedian I love, Casey Wilson, once wrote that a quote she latched onto during early motherhood was, “this is the moment I find myself in.” I too have found that quote to be a comforting reminder that I may be the main character of my own story, but the plot line is only influenced by me, not written in ink. Everyday of motherhood so far has been one full of madness and magic. It’s an uncomfortable feeling for me to be reminded so frequently that I’m not really in control. But I wouldn’t have it any other way because in place of the illusion of control, I’ve been gifted passionate purpose. And I hope to show my daughter that she gives me that passionate purpose everyday for the rest of my life.

It might sound sophomoric, but I regard the title of “best friend” with deliberate honor. To have a best friend is a gift I don’t ever take for granted, and to be called a best friend is an esteemed emblem that warrants pride. This being said, I do believe we can have more than one best friend, as we have richly unique chapters in our lives where certain players enter for, in my opinion, specific and divine reasons. Some enter to provide conflict which leads to growth or necessary change, some enter to provide guidance and support which helps us navigate the unknown, and some enter to provide love, light, laughter, and adventure which colors in the pages, enchants our experiences, and often determines the course of our next chapter. I have found that a “best” friend emerges from this cast when you discover two essential truths in another: your fundamental values, and I’m not talking political preferences, but rather your molecular level values, are mirrored, and when the other inspires you or motivates you to be a better version of yourself simply by being themself.

Fairfax, VA 2011

I have been lucky enough to have a few different best friends through my 30 years on planet earth. Two of these women, Cara and Jackie, have been my best friends through the most tumultuous and transformational years in my life thus far. Eight years ago these two best friends and I decided to take a leap of faith and go on a wild adventure into the California unknown together and unsurprisingly after that first adventure, I went from the addition sign to a third constant in the equation that we came to coin “the trifecta.” As if I wasn’t lucky enough to separately call them both my best friends, my best friends became best friends with each other and we developed a sacred bond that lies powerfully dormant for most of the year and then re-erupts each summer. We made our “trifecta summer trip” an annual tradition that has punctuated my life for the last eight years. I used to be most excited for our destination on these trips, but as the years have progressed, our trips are far more about the company, and the destination has simply faded into a backdrop. Sure, we still like to select a desirable destination, preferably one with a prolific wine scene, but I think for all three of us, our trifecta trips are far more relationship based. Something happens to all three of us on these trips where we feel completely disembodied from reality, encouraged by one another to lean in to reverting to child-like states, and liberated to shed old skins and share new goals with one another, which for me, inevitably leads to a new personal beginning. I’ve said this about girls trips in the past, they are necessary; necessary for sanity, growth, and happiness. These trips, however, with my two best friends who have forged their own friendship, possess a catalytic chemistry that function as my New Year’s Eve and Day in one long weekend.

Vegas 2012

Vegas 2012

Vegas, 2012

Vegas, 2012

Pacific Beach, San Diego, 2013

West Hollywood, 2013

Vegas, 2013

Vegas, 2013

Vegas, 2013

Venice Beach, 2016

Huntington Beach, 2014

Vegas, 2014

Napa, 2017

Napa, 2017

Yountville, 2017

Vegas, 2017

Vegas, 2017

Joshua Tree, 2014

Joshua Tree, 2016

Joshua Tree, 2016

Fairfax, VA, 2016

Orange, VA, 2016

Napa, 2017

Venice Beach, 2016

Though, as I pen this now, it’s been eight years since we started the tradition, we took one sort of “off year” when I spent a whole summer abroad. Therefore, our most recent trifecta adventure (2018) was actually officially Year 6 of our tradition. Summer of 2018, we were all feeling the consequences of bachelorette parties, vacations with our S.O.s, weddings, and, though we are sans children, other expenses that come with being gainfully employed adults living in expensive cities and suburbs. So, we had a few criteria for Year 6’s destination: inexpensive, natural beauty, somewhere we hadn’t been, and wine abundant. On a whim, Cara suggested her grandparents’ cottage on Cayuga Lake in the Finger Lakes of upstate New York. A free place all to ourselves on a lake in a pastoral setting with a notable wine scene? Jackie and I eagerly voiced interest!

Come July 3rd, Cara and I drove to NYC where we scooped Jackie, and then all three of us made our escape into the pastel sunset as it unfurled itself into the bowling greens and stretches of crops along the rural highways. By the time we reached the cottage on Cayuga, the last drop of sunset was dripping down beyond the horizon, so we ran out of my SUV and onto the long and worn private dock, our flip flops hitting the planks like an old wooden xylophone. After snapping several sunset-over-still-waters photos, we unloaded and took a tour of our digs we would call home for the next 4 days. I have two words for our humble abode: time warp. Cara’s sweet grandparents, who were both school teachers and vacationed in the cottage every summer, bought the cottage 50 years ago, and though they had splurged for a lovely addition to the home, preserved the integrity of the cottage in all her simplistic, vintage, sun-bleached glory. Stepping into that house was like unearthing a shoe box time capsule from your childhood home backyard. Being a nostalgic millennial, I felt right at home. The only drawback: no AC. We spent the rest of that evening and late night drinking wine on the deck, gazing up at a glittering night’s sky, catching up and pretending to remember constellations, which ultimately led to using a constellation app on our phones.

The next morning we rose fairly early to make the trek out to Farm Sanctuary in Watkins Glen, NY for their annual 4th of July “Pignic.” Cara, following in her mother’s admirable footsteps, is a climate warrior and a passionate, yet not annoying, Vegan. Over the years she has taught me a lot about living a plant based life, and though I am far from fully plant based as of now, because of her, I have been leaning in to getting to fully plant based, likely in another year. I don’t eat any red meat or pork anyways, but as a result of our visit to the Farm Sanctuary coupled with Cara’s gentle teaching (not pressuring), I have slowly but surely been weaning myself off of chicken and turkey, and hope to eventually be off of seafood as well. At any rate, the Farm Sanctuary is a truly special place for animal lovers. We indulged in a decadent, 4th of July “barbecue” equipped with all the staples; macaroni salad, potato salad, “brats”, “burgers,” only everything was plant based. It was all incredible! After our feast we got to walk around the sanctuary and interact with all the happy, healthy, rescued animals. We hugged a lot of goats, pet a turkey (yes, a turkey), snapped selfies with cows, marveled at the size of some gargantuan pigs taking gargantuan naps, and squeeled with glee as we watched some piglets go for a mud bath. I fell in love with a handsome cow named Merlin. I kissed a cow and I liked it.

On our way back from the pignic, we stopped in Aurora, a charming little town lined with restored Victorian homes, an upscale hotel, a pub, and a sweet little wine shop. We popped into the wine shop to enjoy our first Finger Lakes wine tasting, which pleasantly surprised us! We knew the Finger Lakes had a renowned wine scene, but so does Virginia and I for one am yet to try a Virginia wine that holds a candle to a California or Washington varietal. This being said, I was skeptical at best but happy to report my skepticism was quickly debunked. Known for their dry Riesling, the Finger Lakes wine gave Napa a run for its money! We purchased a couple bottles before heading back to the cottage for the first of many dock chill sessions. We sat on that private dock from late afternoon until well past sundown, gabbing, laughing, and doing what all respectable 30-year-olds do, playing truth or dare. That evening we cooked a healthy veggie-rich dinner, invented a game involving the dictionary, played the 1940 version of Clue, and drank several bottles of wine… and possibly consumed a brick of cheese each.

The next morning heralded our wine country day. We used a company called Stompin Good Times for transportation. The car picked us up at 11 from our cottage and took us to four different wineries before returning us back to the cottage at 5 PM. This was highly affordable and well worth it! We packed a cooler for lunch and donned our cutest Provençal looks for the occasion. Our driver was a delight, albeit, likely perturbed by our ceaseless selfie taking and backseat giggling that only increased as the day, and the wine, waxed. Sadly, I don’t remember all four names of the wineries we visited, but I do remember my favorite wine we had was at Thirsty Owl, an unassuming winery with a laid-back, fun vibe and generous wine pourers. There are literally over 100 wineries in the Finger Lake region, and you can’t go wrong at any of them. Even if the wine isn’t to your liking, most of the wineries boast gorgeous views of either rolling hills and farmland or the shores of one of the sprawling lakes.

That evening welcomed another giggly, game-filled night that we capped off with a viewing of Titanic on VHS on the 1 foot screen by 3 foot bulbous depth TV that attracted a slew of bugs. Again, it was nostalgia at its finest, and at many times, felt like summer camp.

The following morning we went for a short hike on the Great Gully trail, a trailhead that was just steps from our cottage. The hike is super easy and short, but offers a lovely reward of a small lagoon and waterfall. It’s probably much more powerful during the spring, it was like a dainty rainfall shower for us due to the heat and lack of rain. However, this didn’t stop us from stripping down, wading in, and cooling off in the shaded privacy of the thick of the woods.

This evening marked our “big night out,” which in the Finger Lake region simply means going out for dinner. Prior to dining out, we stopped for a little culture (I guess you could call it that) at the MacKenzie-Childs barn for a tour of the, as one could imagine, whimsically decorated mansion. The tour was slightly over-the-top, but probably riveting for an interior decorator. We enjoyed ourselves, but I’d say it’s not a must-do unless you’re really into the MacKenzie-Childs ceramics, decorating, or learning about boring, rich white people. After our visit to the barn, we got drinks at the pub across from the Aurora Inn where we were having dinner. The pub is slightly dingy and charmingly divey on the interior, and then has a bewitching little outdoor patio with ample seating. We opted for al fresco and giggled over wine until our table was ready at the Aurora Inn.

A popular wedding venue, the Aurora Inn perches atop a bowling green hill that hugs the edge of Cayuga Lake. We got a gorgeous outdoor deck table where we dined like queens on fresh seafood and champagne, whilst reveling in a bird’s eye view of an elegant wedding taking place in a tent on the green below. I’ve never been to Cape Cod or The Hamptons, but the scene conjured images for me of what I could imagine that North Eastern Shore life of luxury might entail. After dinner we went for drinks at the pub across the street from the inn, but called it an earlier night as we feared we wouldn’t be able to get a cab home to our remote digs if we stayed out past 11. Back at the ranch, Jackie and I stayed up later than necessary imbibing also unnecessary amounts of wine.

On our final day we decided to embrace lake life full out by posting up on the dock from morning until night, stepping inside only to grab more wine or cheese. Sometimes plant based life needs to pause for days spent on docks in north eastern wine country. We even took our dinner down to the dock on our final evening as to not miss a second of that au natural paradise. Girls trips offer us a suspension from reality; a time to be free to revert, to laugh loudly and share honestly, and to unleash jokes and questions with unbridled inhibitions. Sitting out on that dock with my two best buds was all of those things at once that make girls trips so enriching and necessary to the soul. As I said, these trifecta trips punctuate each of my years and more so serve as my new beginning or New Year’s Day than actual New Year’s Day, so how coincidentally fitting it was for the neighbor to shoot off mortar fireworks just above our dock on this final night on Cayuga! We also lit some sparklers just the three of us and as the fireworks set the onyx sky ablaze and our pom-poms of shimmery sparks reflected off the languid ripples of the lake, we all three heralded a new year, with new goals, new wishes, new senses of self, but always, the same old best of friends.

This year, winter came, and she was an unkind, leggy beast that left me in her dreary, shivery wake, weak and weary. Just one day after my grandma’s 91st birthday, hours before the birthday party we were all getting ready to happily attend, she was rushed to the hospital and a few days after that, she peacefully bid this world farewell. Sure, 91 is an incredibly long life, but grandma made it feel like she wasn’t ever going anywhere. She was sharp, fashionable, funny, full of vim and vigor. It’s never easy to say goodbye, even when it’s a graceful exit like hers, and it wasn’t easy. Sadness always weakens my immune system and shortly after grandma’s passing, I became incredibly ill and caught pneumonia. This took me out for, honestly, a couple of weeks in total, causing me to have little energy to distract myself from my sadness. Not to mention, we endured a polar vortex and I for one am a desert dweller at heart. I hate to bum anyone out, as I typically run on optimism, but, life happens and we need the dark to appreciate the light. I needed light. I didn’t just welcome spring, I needed spring.

I preface this post with this because it illuminates the purposes of this trip I’m about to detail: escapism, fun in the sun, and quality time together to have fun and be on “island time.” We hadn’t taken a trip just the two of us since the previous year’s spring break, so we were overdue. Al and I always have fun together, even at home doing chores, but one of the reasons I truly fell for my adventurous man is because of how well we traveled together from the very beginning when we were young, penniless bucks. Our trips together recharge my battery and equip us with a reserve of glittering memories. At first we were considering somewhere in the Caribbean, but we were late to the booking game and decided to head somewhere in the U.S. that wouldn’t be a logistical fiasco and would still offer us a tropical vibe. Key West fits that bill, and though I have been a few times, to me, it’s a destination worth revisiting especially with this vacation agenda. Neither of us had ever spent any real time in Miami, so we decided to spend our first two nights in the heart of South Beach before renting a car for the day to road trip down to Key West for the remaining three days of our trip. Below are highlights and favorites of this sunny, coconut flavored, true Vacation.

Trip itinerary:

• South Beach, Miami for two nights, staying at Hotel Breakwater in the heart of Ocean Drive

• Key West, FL for three nights, staying at the quaint and convenient Tropical Seascape Inn just off Duval Street

South Beach nightlife:

We flew into Fort Lauderdale, as it was cheaper, and got a Lyft from FLL to South Beach, an easy 30 minute ride. The sun had set so we were greeted by Ocean Drive’s neon Art Deco signage and the relentless vibrations of both DJs pumping club anthems from the indoor/outdoor restaurants and lounges lining Ocean Drive and attention-seeking Ocean Drive drivers competing for who can blast their music loudest. I knew South Beach was notorious for its party vibe, but I didn’t genuinely appreciate that known fact until I lived it. I’m a Vegas girl at heart and I can honestly say, I think South Beach is more wild than Vegas. Al and I posted up at an outdoor table at Havana 1957, our hotel’s restaurant, where we engaged in cocktail and appetizer sampling and one of the most amusing South Beach pastimes: people watching. A river of humanity flows up and down the sidewalks of Ocean Drive, the iconic main boulevard parallel to the equally iconic beach lined with fruit loop colored lifeguard huts. Bachelorettes, bachelors, spring breakers, elderly couples, families, and armies of girls trips flood the scene. It’s a ceaseless flow that moves to the rhythm of Latin beats and pretty hostesses beckoning their prey, the air ripe with mint, rum, and sugarcane, and a neon rainbow of flashy and questionable fashions. Al and I quickly learned that Ocean Drive is absolutely the place to go for amusement, but not for authentic or notable dining. The drinks were decent along Ocean Drive, albeit, insanely expensive. We did a little make- your-own bar crawl, which ultimately ended in my personal demise the next morning. The bar/club literally next to our room, which unfortunately was on the first floor and the noisiest room we have ever stayed in, turned out to be one of our favorite bars on Ocean Drive- fantastic music, entertainment galore in the forms of bachelorette and bachelor parties and European families hitting the dance floor altogether, and they surprisingly made a fabulous extra dirty martini, of which I had one too many for this overly eager spring breaker. I believe the club was an extension of Havana 1957. If you go to South Beach and hit up Ocean Drive, you won’t be able to miss it, it’s in the heart of the action and has a DJ on a stage and fountains running down the middle of its living wall lined open air courtyard. Al and I ended our super late first night on the beach, toes in the sand, giggling at other vacationers who had bravely decided to skinny dip. Bottom line on South Beach nightlife: it’s a party. We didn’t attempt to go to any actual clubs, but our Lyft driver told us the clubs don’t heat up until 2 AM, and most people don’t go out until 1 AM at the earliest. He said most people aren’t finishing their evenings until 7 AM. And I thought Vegas was wild.

Little Havana and Wynwood:

Though I got off to not my finest of mornings the following day, I was able to get myself together at a reasonable hour so we could tour a couple sights of interest: first stop, Little Havana for authentic Cuban food, and a mini Cuban culture immersion. Then, on to Wynwood for street art admiring and strolling the hip neighborhoods. Little Havana was not exactly what I was expecting, it’s a bit more spread out than I had imagined, but it’s still worth a stop! We ate at Versailles, which is one of the oldest, supposedly most authentic Cuban restaurants in Little Havana. I learned on this trip that Cuban food isn’t my favorite cuisine, but I still enjoyed the experience of this restaurant and the service was fantastic. I ordered the Cuban paella, while Al ordered the Cuban sampler plate which kept him overly satiated until 9 PM. After Versailles we took a quick Lyft to Calle Ocho, the famous street of Little Havana where we first stopped at Ball and Chain for Coronas and amazing live salsa music. We then walked up and down Calle Ocho, which is a remarkably un-American sensory experience. Between the serenade of chickens and roosters and the fragrance of coconut and fresh fruit stands on every corner, and then Domino Park clad with weathered faces and the delicate clinking of strategic tile placement, Calle Ocho feels like what it is: a little Havana, a trip beyond borders.

We got another Lyft to head to Wynwood, our first stop: the Wynwood Walls. Upon entrance into Wynwood, the vibe could not be more of a stark contrast to Little Havana, which was neat for us because we had such a diversified, touristic day. Wynwood is hip, trendy, arty, and young. Wynwood Walls is an indoor/outdoor art “museum” full of whimsical, vibrant wall art as well as avant- grade collections of sculptures, paintings, and collectibles produced by various artists across the world from various time periods. It is absolutely worth checking out! After Wynwood Walls we strolled the streets a bit until we got to the Wynwood Marketplace, an outdoor market with endless rows of tented vendors selling clothing, jewelry, art, food, and beverages. In the center of the marketplace is a loud indoor/outdoor bar. We strolled and tried on various treasures before deciding the sun was a little too ruthless and our bellies were still a little too full from our authentic Cuban cuisine experience, so we headed back to South Beach for a small siesta on the beach. The beach is lovely, albeit, napping was a challenge with the party that is South Beach. Between three different girls trips surrounding us and then two couples who came stumbling onto the beach just beside us, the entertainment was unavoidable and distracting. We caught a creamy, dreamy, pastel sunset on the raucous beach before heading back to the hotel.

Dinner in South Beach:

We were both still licking our wounds from our far too lubricated first evening out, and we were also in need of a reprieve from the feral amusement of Ocean Drive, so we hunted for a quiet, sophisticated Italian restaurant about a mile off the main drag. We walked to Macchialina, which looked adorable and charming and smelled divine, but sadly they were entirely booked up. We walked a couple blocks past Macchialina and found a quiet, bistro lit, white table clothed Italian spot called Da I Frasca and decided to take a chance. They sat us out on the peaceful patio, candlelit, and tented with a living wall and Italian regulars, one accompanied by his adorable Italian dog. This place was heavenly. The pasta was homemade, the wine list was extensive, and the service was impeccable. We highly recommend!

Road Tripping from Miami to Key West:

Al and I have done the trip from Fort Lauderdale to Key West via convertible before, and we remembered it fondly. The ride is flat and easy, but such a wondrously watery visage! For much of the ride, you are sandwiched between turquoise waters stretching as far as the eye can see. The road and water are nearly on the exact same plain, so it creates the illusion that you’re riding atop water, which is a welcome trip in our book. We rented a newer Mustang convertible through Hertz at the Miami airport and then hit the sandy road. Getting out of Miami takes about 20-30 minutes of highways, then you’re on double lane roads flanked by dense mangrove swamps and cerulean seas. We drove for about an hour and a half before stopping in Key Largo for lunch. I had originally planned for us to go to a sleepy hole-in-the-wall called Mrs. Macs, but when we drove past it, it looked a bit more sad than charming. We did a quick search for waterfront lunch spots and I liked the looks of Skippers Dockside. We took a chance as it is kind of set in an unassuming neighborhood off the coastal highway, but this place is one we would absolutely recommend and love to return to for lunch! It had a circular outdoor deck that hugged a canal clad with a bevy of nautical vessels, from pristine and stately to vintage and rusty. We enjoyed the local catch as we were serenaded by an incredible live musician crooning classic rock staples that inspired massive waves of nostalgia for us both. The food, service, and ambiance were a Floridian vacation lunch at its finest!

After lunch we headed to John Pennekamp State Park for some sea and mangrove maze kayaking. This was a peaceful way for us to burn off a little bit of our hefty lunch and to soak up some Florida sunshine in the first underwater park established in the U.S. The park is well appointed with public restrooms and showers, a gift shop with aquatic gear for rent and purchase, and a sweet little visitor center with a huge aquarium where you can learn about the ecosystem and who it is home to. We opted for the short kayak loop, as we still wanted to stop at a couple more places along our route, and this was the perfect amount of time for us to get a small dose of exercise and to take in the mangrove landscape. The water isn’t that cerulean dream color that many Florida beaches boast. Instead, it was a dark emerald color, but still quite clear. I kept looking out for marine life, but sadly all we saw was a great deal of tall, underwater grass. My favorite part of the loop was when we got out to an open stretch of ocean after kayaking the back marshes, and we took a little break to admire some boats anchored nearby, the water gently lapping against the planks.

A little briny and sunkissed, we hopped back in the convertible to head to our next stop: Islamorada. We were hoping to find the inn where Bloodline is filmed, which is called Mooring Inn and Spa. We did locate it, and it looked gorgeous and charming, however, it was clearly marked as private property and cautioned no trespassing, so we obeyed and admired from the car. We had planned on doing a full stop in Islamorada for the artist village, but decided against it so we could make better time for Key West check-in. We did have to make a stop, however, at Hawk’s Cay in Duck Key. Alex’s grandma used to be a member of this ritzy, family style resort and spa, and he talks about it frequently with great nostalgic fondness. We stopped here the last time we went to Key West, and so it has become a bit of a tradition. Though you’re not supposed to pop in for a drink, as they want members only, each time we have come and told them our story of how Alex spent childhood summer vacations there, they have allowed us to enter and enjoy the premises. We like the tiki bar at the pool that overlooks the lagoons. They have a great bar menu, perfect for a road trip snack and sip pit stop.

I really wanted to stop at the Sea Turtle hospital in Marathon, which is one of the closest keys to Key West, but sadly, it was past 6 PM when we got to it and they had closed. I heard great things about this hospital, and I love any excuse to interact with animals, especially turtles! So, next time!

We caught a fiery sunset as we drove into Key West. We had to first drop off our car rental at the Key West airport, which might be one of my favorite airports because it is so tiny, beachy, and laid back. There was one lady there to receive us who didn’t even look at the car and just needed our paperwork. Easy breezy. We got a cab from the airport to our inn and got to take in our first reacquaintance with the charm of Key West; a white and pastel grid of southern plantation style homes and funky beach cottages, bistro lit cafes, sunny and bright restaurants, nautical bars, and the sound of live music and the clinking of glasses… this is the soundscape and landscape of Key West, and what makes it an irresistible spring break dream. Our inn, Tropical Seascape Inn, was in a prime location, just off of Duval Street (quite literally) but yet on the quieter end of Duval and on a charming, quiet side street. Like many inns in Key West, the quarters are small, but we loved our inn’s little back patio equipped with a hot tub surrounded by palm trees, an ice machine, and an outdoor shower. We immediately went for a soak in the hot tub and relished the sound of palm leaves swaying in the gentle breeze.

We went for a super European dinner at 10 PM to a romantic spot called Nine One Five. The restaurant shares an old southern mansion with another restaurant upstairs, which might be equally as good, but we highly recommend Nine One Five. The kitchen was closing, but our server helped us out and got our orders in quickly. The food was exquisite and we sat out on the candlelit front patio, which meant we could enjoy some Duval Street people watching. Duval Street’s people watching is far more tame than South Beach, but still can be amusing.

After dinner we walked Duval to find a fun bar with live music. We stopped at a cowboy/saloon style bar, but it proved to be a bit too right wing for me… literally, they were playing Televangelist Joel Osteen on one of their TVs. We stuck around for a couple songs, before bailing and ending up at the famous Willie T’s. You’ve probably seen pictures of Willie T’s or been there if you’ve visited Key West. It’s the open air bar adorned in dollar bills on every nook and cranny of its walls and ceiling. In my opinion, they always have the best live music, and it is the epitome of Key West night life. We stayed until last call before heading back to our inn.

The following morning I decided to take a run, one of my favorite ways of getting a lay of my land in a new surrounding. Though I got caught in a brief sun storm, I oriented myself geographically and discovered a cute beach called Higgins Beach with a beach walkway running parallel to it.

Al and I enjoyed a perfect vacation breakfast at Banana Cafe. It’s a popular spot, so you can expect a wait, but it’s worth it. Fantastic ambiance and food. We wanted to have a half beach day but were undecided on which beach. The only downside to Key West, in our opinion, is there aren’t that many fantastic beaches. There are a couple, which I’ll explain in a moment, but to me, none of them are wow-worthy because they all have a great deal of sea weed that beaches itself on the shores and clumps in the shallow water. On our previous trip we went to Fort Zachary to explore the fort and go to the state park beach. The water is fantastic at Fort Zachary. It has the least amount of seaweed of all the beaches, however, there is a big caveat: no sand. It’s all rock and shell, even in the water, which makes laying out and entering the beautiful, tranquil waters, not so tranquil. It was scorching when we got to Fort Zachary, so we spent about 2 and a half hours there, mostly in the water, before deciding we needed some Pina Coladas and a stroll. We did a little shopping on Duval and, though we aren’t art officianados, something we like to do in new towns is browse the art galleries. Key West has many!

Something we did the last time we were in Key West was go on a sunset booze cruise, which is a complete must! We went through the same company as last time, Fury, and opted once again for the catamaran with a live band. This is such a delightful experience! The price is right, the crew is always engaging, the live music is wonderful, and in addition to unlimited booze, they provide platters of decent snacks and appetizers. Of note: a large charcuterie plate, which paired quite nicely with my Chardonnay. Sunsets in Key West, in my opinion, rival, if not supersede, California sunsets. The band aboard our Fury catamaran took requests, which got many passengers aboard, ages ranging from 8 to 75, up and dancing with their loved ones. It was such a sweet sight.

After our sunset serenade at sea, we walked from the marina to Blue Heaven, one of Key West’s most notable restaurants. We dined at Blue Heaven on our last trip and were completely smitten; the food, the ambiance, the live music, all make Blue Heaven a, fittingly, heavenly experience. Blue Heaven is a completely outdoor space sheltered by the intricate, intertwining, and infinite limbs of mossy draped Banyan trees. Rainbow lights project into the jungly canopy and an array of nautical, pirate themed paraphernalia adorn the live music hut, the circular bar in the center of it all, and the hostess stand. Though going barefoot is encouraged, there is nothing casual about the cuisine and service. The ambiance is unparalleled, but sadly, we weren’t as wowed by our meals on this visit as we had been a few years ago. Perhaps they got a new chef? Regardless, it’s a fantastic place worth visiting for dinner if you’ve never been.

After dinner we headed back to Willie T’s for another late night of ample cocktails and noteworthy live music. We were in complete awe of this one performer named Ike Kanakanui who was essentially a one man band. Just when we thought he couldn’t possibly play another instrument he would pull a different apparatus from a seemingly endless and magical pile of instruments ranging from a kazoo to a mini trumpet. We ended up staying until closing yet again, and talked to Ike as well, who proved to be just as interesting and free-spirited as one would imagine.

The next day Alex’s family was due to meet up with us as their cruise ship stopped in Key West. We all enjoyed a rooftop lunch at Schooners Wharf Bar and Grill at the marina. The food and drinks were good, service was meh, but the views were priceless. We then rented bikes and rode to the Southernmost Inn beach. Lounge chairs are astronomical at this beach so we splurged for only two, which didn’t bother us since most of us went straight into the water and didn’t come out for close to two hours. The water wasn’t that seaweedy, and this beach does have a smooth, sandy bottom, unlike the rocky basement of Fort Zachary. After bidding our family bon voyage, Al and I extended our bike rental for the next 24 hours and rode up and down Duval Street and side streets until just before sunset. Once sunset beckoned, we headed to the famous Sunset Pier for drinks and dinner. We lucked out and got one of the best sunset facing spots. I must say, we were pleasantly surprised by the food at Sunset Pier. It’s quite touristy, so the food would be expectantly garbage, but it was excellent. We watched our final Key West sunset send a shimmering flame through the horizon before the edge of the Atlantic slowly swallowed every last bit of orange radiance, blanketing the peninsula with twinkly dusk. We rode our bikes after dinner all over the town, up and down Duval, through the cemetery, and up and down side streets, before calling it a night.

Our flight didn’t depart until 2 PM the next day, so we got up early and, knowing the Key West airport is incredibly tiny and manageable, squeezed out every final minute we had in tropical paradise. We rode bikes to Pepe’s Cafe, the oldest dining establishment in Key West. We waited for a table in their outdoor patio, suitable for the likes of Jack Sparrow or Captain Ron, but then decided to eat at the weathered teak bar, where we feasted on a sweet and savory breakfast. After breakfast we rode our bikes to the beach walkway I had run to the previous day at Higgins Beach and rode until we got to Smathers Beach. We took a leisurely stroll along Smathers and discovered our error in spending our beach day at Fort Zachary. Next time we will absolutely be going to Smathers Beach for the day as it has a velvety stretch of sand, clear waters, water sports, and ample space for privacy and relaxation. We decided against Smathers as we heard the seaweed was inescapable and it caused an unbearable “low tide” aroma. This was not the case. Definitely get yourself to Smathers Beach for a beach day when in Key West.

After our beach discovery and stroll, it was time to pack up and head to the airport, which took us all of fifteen minutes total to get from our inn, to the airport, and through security to our “gate,” of which they don’t really even have, it’s just one big waiting area where they call your flight over the loud speaker.

All in all, our sunny Spring Break to Miami and Key West was a perfect balance of high-energy city life meets laid-back seaside escape. Every beat of live music, every drop of Pina Colada, every splash of salty sea water, and every fiery sunset defrosted us from our winter blues and healed our heavy hearts, heralding a return to lighter days and the dawning of a sweeter season ripe with hope, promise, and laughter.

As a Shakespeare enthusiast, Verona was a shining star amidst my country-hopping constellation. Friends and family members had also raved about this history and character rich town in northern Italy, so I was quite giddy upon arrival.  Additionally, our next and final stop was Switzerland, so it geographically made some sense.  Overall, Verona is a perfect blend of everything I love about Italy; medieval romanticism with the fictional Juliet’s balcony and the ruins of a fortress and a castle from the 1300’s atop the hill of San Pietro, an archaic big-city attraction of the 1st century Roman amphitheater known as the Arena di Verona,  a provincial small-town feel with its narrow alleyways and bustling piazzas, and hole-in-the-wall bars and pubs teeming with locals ordering Aperol spritzes.  The only thing it lacks is the sea, but it does boast a wide river called the Adige River and a stunning, pedestrian friendly bridge called the Ponte Pietra.    Alex and I splurged a little on our hotel here, but it was well worth it as we thoroughly embraced the rooftop bar where we could soak in Verona’s engaging and versatile landscape and skyline.

Highlights and moments:

-Walking. Our hotel overlooked the Arena di Verona, the Roman amphitheater that is still in use today for opera performances, which is in Piazza Bra, one of the biggest piazzas in Verona. Therefore, we were staying in a central location, ideal for walking…though, as long as you stayed within the city limits, I think you’d be fine for walking no matter where you chose to stay in Verona, it’s a manageable destination that begs to be taken in afoot.  Alex and I wiled away the morning, noon, and evening strolling the piazzas, bridges, alleyways and stairs.  We highly recommend burning some calories to reach the top of Castel  San Pietro to be rewarded by the highest view of the city beneath the shade of the trees lining the Piazzale. If birds-eye-view seeking is a goal of yours, as it often is ours, be sure to also visit the Torre Dei Lamberti, where you can climb the winding stairs to the top for unbeatable views of the terracotta jig-saw puzzled landscape below.  In addition to the high (literally) points of interest, Verona is ripe with gorgeous, only-in-Europe and Disney movies piazzas perfect for aimless strolling and fountain-side sitting. We recommend copping a seat near one of the fountains in any piazza in Verona to bemuse yourselves with people watching and a cacophonous soundscape of the pattering of the fountain, countless languages echoing against the stone and ivy walls, and street vendors chanting their persuasive hymns.

If you’re as much of a Shakespeare enthusiast as I am, you must visit Juliet’s “house” and “balcony”.  I put these in quotation marks because Romeo and Juliet were fictional characters.  In fact, it was said that Shakespeare had never even been to Verona, Italy.  Regardless, if you’re a fanciful bibliophile/escapist like myself, this reality-check minutia won’t detract from the whimsy of imagining Juliet Capulet gazing out from her balcony to find her Romeo in the courtyard proclaiming his love for her and setting the most timeless love tragedy into motion and subsequently influencing nearly all love story plots to come.  It’s super touristy and busy, no matter what time you visit, but again, in my eyes, worth it.

-Enjoy happy hour by the River Adige with a younger local crowd at Terrazza Al Ponte Verona.  After enviously eyeing what the locals had ordered and inquiring with our server as to what the orange colored concoctions were called, Alex and I enjoyed indulging in our first-ever Aperol Spritzes riverside.

-Many restaurants lined the main square near Arena di Verona, which was quite literally next door to our hotel.  We were pretty tired and hungry after walking the entire city and therefore didn’t have enough energy to quest for an off-the-beaten path gem for dinner.  This being said, we plopped down at one of the outdoor patios lining the square of Piazza Bra for underwhelming plates of pasta that very well could have been ordered from an pizza delivery joint back home. Nonetheless, the glow of the backlit Roman amphitheater and the echo of children’s laughter as they bobbled through the stony square created for a romantic ambiance.