Once upon a time, in the throes of the misery attached to my infertility, I was lucky enough to regain my emotional footing upon hearing a terminally ill child explain her concept of living with her illness. She stated, “You get bitter or you get better.” She had made the decision to live out her remaining days on her own terms without letting her illness define her.
And I felt ashamed of my own, overinflated regard for my problem.
Once upon a time, in the heat of battle during an argument, I was blessed enough to regain my sense of understanding upon hearing my male friend question my desire to focus on the few wrong moves he made rather than focusing on the overwhelming abundance of positive ones.
And I felt ashamed of my own selfish regard for the importance of my viewpoint.
Once upon a time, I read the personal words of a few poets in our community, and my heart was touched enough to form tears in eyes that struggled to read about their thoughts and experiences.
And I felt pride in them, at their ability to make me care.