Trash to Sanctuary

It’s a brisk Sunday morning in October. I sleep through church and wake to a feeling of emptiness. My life feels empty of purpose—of love—for myself, and for my husband. It’s been seven months since my husband and I last unite as husband and wife. Frankly, I’ve given up on myself, allowing my passion for life to die along with my marriage. However,  with the suffocating heat finally dissipating, a draft of cool air from the window gently washes over my body as I stare blankly at the dusty swirling fan above.

It's as if this breeze unleashes the last bit of hope from within. I muster the infinitesimal motivation within my spirit and decide things must change. To start, I’ll focus on losing the  10 pounds I’ve gained over the summer. As I embark on my journey to the gym, the hues of rust orange, vibrant red, and gold mesmerize me as if I’ve been color-blind my entire life and this is my first time seeing vivid color. 

I sign up for a fitness class I once taught to others. After not working out for seven months, I struggle to lift the weight my former self could easily crush. A voice within reminds me to be gentle with myself, so I continue without judgment. I make it to the end of the class to the part I dread the most—abs. Dropping to the floor, I attempt a crunch, but once I place my hand on my stomach, I feel a hard bulge. Curious, I think to myself, “Either this class is really effective, and I have six-pack abs, or something is up.” 

I hoist my tired body up and gaze at myself in the mirror in shock. It’s as if I saw myself for  the first time in my wedding dress when I say, “damn girl, you look good!” This time,  however, I stare into the mirror and gasp, “damn girl, you look pregnant!” The at-home pregnancy test, along with a blood test at Patient First, both affirm the truth I’m petrified to admit. The next morning, I meet with my OBGYN, Dr. Davis, who looks as though she is Snow White, aging gracefully, in a white coat and sneakers. She informs me I’m 29 weeks along and due in just over two months on December 30th. The next day, I learn that it’s a boy—making this baby even more real. 

Both my husband and I have been in shock for the past three days. Our marriage is already in a downward spiral, and this pregnancy binds us together in ways we hadn’t foreseen, whether we like it or not. We part ways after the gender-revealing ultrasound—he heads to a meeting while I return to my office at the National Alliance on Mental Illness of Virginia. As I hide away in the bathroom, still processing the whirlwind of events, it suddenly strikes me: here I am, NAMI Virginia’s Director of Development, working to uplift and advocate for mental health every day, yet I’ve been blindsided by my own mental health struggles, culminating in a cryptic pregnancy that catches me completely off guard. I can’t quite decide if this irony makes me unfit for my role or if it gives me a unique understanding of the very issues I work to support.

Perhaps it’s fitting that I should be here, holding this paradox. As someone who knows both the highs of purpose and the depths of depression, maybe I’m better equipped to genuinely understand what it means to feel lost in the darkness, only to find an unexpected light. It’s precisely because of my personal journey with mental health that I might be able to serve more empathetically, not despite, but because of my own lived experience. In this way, maybe it’s not ironic after all—maybe it’s God’s way of aligning my life’s struggles with the mission I’ve chosen to pursue.

This is my wake-up call to no longer dwell in misery since there are less than two months before this child arrives—I do not have the option or luxury to dwell in shock. I must act,  but the scope of what is ahead of me is too daunting to comprehend in its entirety. So, I choose one thing—preparing the nursery—to motivate me out of my depression. 

The only space in the entire house to make room for the baby is the trash room; the room where things deemed with no worth—no further purpose—are hidden from view. I open the door, inhaling the dusty must as I assess what I’m working with. Trash covers every inch of the floor, making it difficult to walk without tripping. A carpet, stained with pet feces, lies beneath, while the dark brown walls make the room seem ominous and confined. 

I leap into gear, rent a dumpster, and thrust bag after bag of trash over the dirty sides. My friend A.J., who we affectionately call our favorite Masshole, helps me pull up the carpet and nails sticking out the floor, occasionally cracking jokes in his thick Boston accent. I  paint the walls a soft blue, transforming the oppressive room into a place of tranquility. My friend Kayla helps me with the finishing touches by assisting me with pasting decals of grey and white birch trees on the wall. We strategically perch delicate yellow owls in the branches—to stand guard through the night—protecting my child in the darkness. 

I complete the room with an antique white dresser, white crib, and baby blue gliding chair from uncle A.J. Rocking in the glider, I hold a flannel long-sleeve onesie—the first gift for the baby—against my chest. I soak in the silence, reflecting on the fact that I not only threw out literal trash to make room for a sanctuary for my child; I also discarded the chains of despair within my soul, leaving room for something greater than myself to fill the sanctuary within me.