…The guilt, anxiety, and fear I’d carried for so long stared back at me, translated into gritty black strokes, stark against the white of the paper like nothing I’d ever painted before.

Oliver’s surgery was successful and he recovered much more quickly than expected. My boy grew stronger over the next several months, but I didn’t. Jason suggested that I sign up for an art class to begin recovering the pieces of myself that I’d lost.

Leaving the house led to being assaulted by well-meaning questions about Oliver’s health that I couldn’t answer. Not only was it too painful to discuss casually, I didn’t have the answers. Every cardiology appointment made me feel like I was underwater and couldn’t come up for air again until we were back in the car.

He was here. Warm in my arms, smelling of milk and hope, but I was still holding my breath… Within the hour and without explanation, he was rushed to the NICU.

During my first trimester, I devoured every book on pregnancy, birth, and breastfeeding I could get my hands on. While research usually provides me with a sense of control, the more I learned about potential complications, devastating mortality statistics, and endless decisions to make, the more quickly I spiraled.

I have some exciting news to share: I have been invited to participate in the Parallel Artists-Mother Show at The Arts Mill next year! I am honored to be one of the twenty creative women who will be sharing their maternal journey at this exhibit.

Having experienced maternal depression and anxiety while I was pregnant with Oliver, I am always looking for opportunities to connect with other mothers who have made it through or are currently struggling.

…And then there he was. Oliver \ still didn’t feel like his name. \ His long wrinkly baby feet \ squirming \ against my hollow belly…