Hitting bottom: the first of 8 secrets of building Resiliance

If you’ve lived through these 8 experiences, you’re more resilient than the average person.

#1 Hitting bottom 

My Darkest moment 

The Hawaiian sun, usually a balm, felt like a mocking spotlight on my despair. I’d landed on the North Shore of Oahu with fifty dollars in my pocket and a secret growing in my belly, a secret that felt less like a miracle and more like a ticking time bomb. The vibrant turquoise of the Pacific, the emerald mountains, the easy rhythm of surfer life – it was all a blur, a beautiful, indifferent backdrop to the deep, dark days of my soul. I was adrift, a shipwrecked soul on an island paradise, estranged from a family I’d pushed away, and utterly, terrifyingly alone. Each crashing wave seemed to echo the relentless questions hammering at my mind: What now? Where do I go? How do I survive this?

Island of Isolation

My days blurred into a monotonous cycle of waking to the humid air, watching the surfers chase giants, and trying to lose myself in the vastness of the ocean. I’d share stale bread and cheap coffee with friends who saw only a quiet, sun-kissed girl, never the storm raging beneath my skin. The word "baby" felt alien, a concept rather than a reality, even as my body began its undeniable transformation. My depression was a heavy cloak, muffling every sound, dulling every color, making the simplest decision feel like scaling Everest. I had no plan, no hope, just the gnawing certainty that I had truly hit bottom.

A Sister's Lifeline

Then, a lifeline. My sister, the unwavering spirit, the epitome of big sister energy, had always been there, a warm anchor in my chaotic life. Even across thousands of miles of ocean, her presence was a steady hum in the static of my despair. She called,  she sent postcards with little notes that spoke not of judgment, but of fierce, unconditional love. She knew. She always knew. She didn't preach or scold; she simply listened, her voice a soothing balm over crackling phone lines. She talked me through the haze, painting a picture of a quiet life in Oregon, a safe haven where I could breathe, where I could figure things out. "Come home," she'd urged, her voice soft but firm. "Come to me. We'll face this together."

The Journey Back to Uncertainty

The thought of leaving the ocean, my temporary escape, filled me with a fresh wave of panic. But the alternative – facing this alone, on an island where I was a ghost haunting my own life – was far more terrifying. So, when I was almost six months pregnant, my belly a prominent curve beneath my loose clothes, I booked a one-way flight. The journey back was a blur of cramped seats and stale air, each hour a heavy weight pressing down on me. I felt like a fragile package, carrying a precious, terrifying cargo, hurtling towards an uncertain future.

Oregon's Somber Embrace

Oregon was a stark contrast to Hawaii's vibrant chaos. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth. The trees, a deep, brooding green, stood sentinel over a landscape that felt both comforting and suffocating in its quietude. My sister’s small, cozy house became my sanctuary, a haven of soft blankets and warm tea, but the walls often felt like they were closing in. The depression, which had been a dull ache in Hawaii, intensified into a crushing weight. I was so profoundly depressed, so utterly despondent, that every breath felt like a monumental effort. The decision, the one I had been avoiding, now loomed large and inescapable, a monstrous shadow stretching across my days.

The Agonizing Choice

Would I keep my baby? The thought was a kaleidoscope of fear: a broke, scared single mother, struggling, condemning us both to a life of struggle and scarcity. I pictured a cramped apartment, endless nights of crying, the gnawing anxiety of bills unpaid, and the constant, crushing weight of perceived inadequacy. My own childhood, with my hash alcoholic father was fractured and uncertain, as it  flashed before my eyes, and I recoiled from the thought of replicating that instability for an innocent life.

Or would I give her up for adoption? The words themselves were a physical blow, tearing at my insides. It felt like a betrayal before it even happened, a pre-emptive amputation of a limb I hadn't yet fully embraced. This was it. These were the darkest days of my life. I had truly hit bottom, the bedrock of my existence crumbling beneath me, leaving me suspended over an abyss of impossible choices.

Navigating the System

The practicalities were a cruel mockery of my emotional turmoil. I had to find a doctor, a new one, who wouldn't ask too many questions about my past or my plans, whose eyes wouldn't linger too long on the haunted look in mine. I had to interview with adoption agencies, sit across from kind, sympathetic faces, and articulate a decision that felt like tearing my own heart out. They spoke in hushed, reassuring tones of "loving homes" and "bright futures," painting idyllic pictures of families yearning for a child. I nodded, my throat tight, my voice a thin whisper, trying to believe their words would somehow soothe the raw wound already forming within me. Each interview was a performance, a carefully constructed facade of composure over a raging inferno of grief and uncertainty. I created a profile for them if s family I was wishing for  my baby, a living stable one unlike what I grew up in . I created a letter with my family's medical history and details to pass on for my future child.

The Endless Walks

To cope, I began to walk. Aimlessly at first, for hours and hours, until my feet ached and my mind was numb. I walked through quiet suburban streets, past houses with manicured lawns and children's toys scattered in yards, each sight a fresh stab of what I was contemplating giving up. I walked through parks, watching young mothers push strollers, their faces alight with a joy I couldn't fathom, a joy that felt impossibly distant from my own reality. The crisp Oregon air filled my lungs, but it couldn't clear the fog in my mind. My thoughts were a relentless, chaotic torrent: Could I do it? Could I really be a mother? Would she forgive me? Would I ever forgive myself?

Sometimes, I’d walk until darkness fell, the streetlights casting long, lonely shadows. I’d imagine two paths stretching before me, diverging sharply. One, a winding, arduous trail, fraught with financial hardship, societal judgment, and the relentless demands of single motherhood. The other, a desolate, empty road, paved with the silence of a child not raised, a future not shared. Both paths felt like a form of death, a sacrifice of a part of myself. My body, heavy with life, felt like a vessel carrying a decision too immense for me to bear. The physical exhaustion of those walks mirrored the emotional depletion, leaving me hollowed out, yet no closer to an answer.

The Inevitable Day

The due date arrived early  it was only 6 months , 3 months early: with the inevitability of a rising tide, a date  before I had planned which had been circled  with dread on my mental calendar. The hospital room was sterile, bright, and filled with the hushed efficiency of medical staff. My sister was there, a silent, comforting presence, holding my hand, her strength flowing into me like a transfusion. The hours of labor were a blur of pain, a primal agony that consumed me, pushing everything else to the periphery. But even through the contractions, the relentless questions persisted, a low thrum beneath the waves of pain, a constant whisper of doubt and fear.

A Love Unbidden

Then, she arrived.

A tiny, wrinkled, screaming bundle, premature  who would be rushed to an incubator. They never  placed her on my chest, like other mothers and in that instant, the world tilted on its axis. The sterile room, the pain, the agonizing decision – it all vanished. There was only her. Her warm, soft skin I would never feel against mine, her tiny fingers never curling around my thumb, her first cries filling the air. A fierce, overwhelming love, primal and undeniable, surged through me, a tidal wave that threatened to drown every rational thought. She’s mine. My baby. The words echoed in my heart, a desperate, possessive whisper, a truth that resonated in every cell of my being. All the carefully constructed arguments, all the logical reasons for my decision, crumbled into dust. This was not a concept; this was a reality, a tiny, perfect human being, irrevocably connected to me.

I  wanted to hold her, memorizing every detail: the faint swirl of hair on her head, the delicate curve of her ear,  her tiny mouth I would never nurse. Time ceased to exist. It was just us, in a bubble of pure, unadulterated love, a fleeting moment of perfect, unburdened motherhood. But even as I felt these emotions, the crushing weight of my pre-existing decision began to descend, slowly, inexorably. The agency, the paperwork, the promises made – they were a cold, hard reality waiting just outside our bubble, a stark reminder of the path I had chosen.

The Severing

The nurses were kind, their voices gentle as they spoke of "finalizing arrangements." Each word was a hammer blow, shattering the fragile peace I had found in her presence. I knew what I had to do. I had made the choice, agonizingly, for her future, for a life I believed I couldn't provide. But knowing it intellectually did nothing to quell the visceral scream of my heart, the primal instinct to hold her close and never let go.

The moment came. They took her. My arms,  felt impossibly light, empty, aching with a phantom weight of a baby I would never know . The room, once filled with her cries, was now silent, the silence deafening, a vast, echoing chasm. I watched her go, a part of my soul tearing away with her, leaving a raw, bleeding wound.

The next few hours were a haze. I signed papers, my hand trembling, the ink blurring on the page. Each signature felt like a betrayal, a severing, a final, irreversible act. My body, still reeling from childbirth, felt hollowed out, a vessel emptied of its purpose. My sister helped me dress, her eyes mirroring my pain, but her touch was steady, grounding me in a reality I barely recognized.

The Empty Walk Home

I walked out of that hospital, the automatic doors sliding open with a soft hiss, into the cool Oregon air. The world outside was bright, bustling, indifferent. Cars whizzed by, people laughed, life continued, oblivious to the gaping void in my chest. My steps were heavy, each one an effort, as if I were dragging an invisible chain. The sun, once a mocking spotlight, now felt like a cold, distant star. My arms swung uselessly at my sides, longing for the weight that was no longer there. The word "mother" felt like a cruel joke, a title I had earned and then immediately relinquished.

What's Next for Me 

What happened to me as I left the hospital without my baby? What happens to a soul cleaved in two, a heart that has known the fiercest love only to surrender it? Was this the beginning of a new chapter, or merely the continuation of a profound, unending silence? Could a broken spirit ever truly mend, or would the echo of those empty arms haunt me forever?

To be continued.