It’s not hard to find someone with a miscarriage story to share. Up to 1 in 5 women with known pregnancies may have a miscarriage and as many as 40% of all pregnancies end in miscarriage. This, of course, is the first thing the doctor and many other people have pointed out to me:  “You are not alone.” Everyone assumes there is comfort in numbers, but I have found just the opposite. First, it’s hardly comforting to know that your loved ones have experienced such an emotional loss. Sure, generally speaking, misery loves company, but this is one of those things you never wish on even your worst enemy.

Also, you always hear people say, “every pregnancy is different.” Well, so is every miscarriage. Was the miscarriage a day or two after a positive pregnancy test or was it after months of being pregnant? Was it a panicky, painful trip to the ER or weeks of waiting impatiently? Was it a first pregnancy? Was it a first miscarriage? Have you had a child since? Each of these factors changes the experience significantly. All miscarriages are painful, emotional losses for a woman, but that’s not to say that I can relate to every woman who has had a miscarriage. In fact, I have found it very difficult to find someone with an experience that I can relate to. So, despite the fact that I am “not alone,” I have found miscarrying to be one of the most isolating experiences of my life.

For weeks I’ve been trying to connect. With someone. With some experience. I don’t really know why – what exactly I expected to gain from that connection but it just felt like a necessary step for me to move on. So, I had family time, vacation time, date nights, girls’ nights, rowdy nights, quiet nights, long phone calls, spa days, you name it. And when all this failed to fill the void I had nowhere else to look but inward.

So last night I went back to an old friend. One I used to spend a good deal of time with, but haven’t of late. As I’m writing this, it seems the obvious “friend” to whom I refer is me. And I suppose that’s true enough. But I was actually referring to my old friend meditation. In fact, they are one and the same.

For two hours last night I did “transformational breathwork.” In other words, I laid on the floor in a candlelit yoga studio filled with some seriously penetrating music surrounded by mostly strangers. But really the only person I was with was me. Me and my thoughts and my breath. For two hours.

If you’ve never meditated, you wouldn’t believe what that can do to a person. It breaks you down. Thought by thought. Emotion by emotion. And that’s only the mind part of it. It also causes your body to release tension and stress that you’ve been holding onto for so long you’ve simply gotten used to it. Your muscles can spasm, tense, become numb and ultimately relax. As all of these changes occur – mind and body – you realize you haven’t taken a truly deep breath in months, maybe years, maybe ever. Because until you let all that go — ALL of that go — you can’t breathe in a therapeutic way.

In short, it was an intense experience. And one that I needed. I can’t say I’m over the loss of my baby or that I ever will be. Meditation didn’t cure me. I still have grieving to do. But it gave me clarity, a path. You can even call it an epiphany. I am alone. But I am also the only one I need to find peace again.

“We spend precious hours fearing the inevitable. It would be wise to use that time adoring our families, cherishing our friends, and living our lives.” ~ Maya Angelou

I don’t like to turn down an opportunity to make a resolution or two. Who couldn’t stand to improve themselves a little, right? Certainly not me. The question is always what changes do I want and do I think I CAN make in myself?

I decided after a year plus of all Lilly, all the time, my 2010 resolution should be a little bit about taking care of me. And if there is one thing that has been tossed to the wayside in the last 17 months, it’s my peace of mind. When Lilly was born, so was a little seedling of anxiety. That seedling grew a little bit with every ride in a car, every outing. What if something happens to Lilly? Or me? Would Lilly be alright? I’m not what you would call a mellow person, but this level of anxiety was a new experience for me. I accepted that fear comes with motherhood to some extent. It’s an inevitability when you put someone else’s life ahead of your own 100% of the time, but then realize that the security of that life depends also on the security of your own. Freaky, right!?

Then there are the tragic stories on the news every day. Children dying in tragic accidents, suddenly, with no warning. Events that can not be prevented, at least not by even the most attentive parents. It’s enough to paralyze a mother with fear. Suffice it to say, I now understand my mother’s irrepressible need to warn me about every possible danger from the unavoidable bumps and bruises of toddlerhood to highly unlikely parasitic infections from Floridian waters. It still drives me a little crazy, but I understand it.

So after news of a truly devastating Christmas morning fire in Louisville, which hit a little too close to home, and the many sleepless, anxiety-filled nights that have followed, I am resolving to find a little peace each day. 10 minutes. That’s all. Ten minutes of solitude each day to take time to breathe, to walk, to read, to meditate, to do anything that calms my nerves. Specifically banned from those ten minutes are technology (TV, computer, telephone, but not music) and multi-tasking. While banning anxiety may be more to the point, it’s not realistic. The idea is that eliminating the stresses of bad news, an overloaded to-do list and the pressure of dealing with those things, even for 10 minutes a day, will eventually help ease the anxiety. Time will tell.