Burned Cheese

I have two main problems this holiday season. One is that I knocked a pizza face down in the oven a week ago and every time I try to bake something, the house smells like burning cheese. The other is that I thought I would be pregnant now. 

I know these things don’t qualify me for any kind of extravagant mourning. I have so many things to be grateful for (and I am). It could be worse, harder, more permanent. Nothing’s wrong, not really. And still, I sat on the It’s a Small World ride yesterday and thought, “What the hell?”

The holidays are hard and burnout is normal, but what about sadness?

I’ve been keeping all of this between me and my journal lately. I mean, between me and my journal, my husband, mom, dad, sisters, sisters-in-law and close friends, but I have’t shared it with a wider audience. Which, you know, seems perfectly advisable. But I’m a believer in stories and maybe I am less healthy when I’m not telling mine. 

This season has been hard, which doesn’t mean it isn’t right or it isn’t good and - what I’m trying to remind myself - it doesn’t mean it won’t get better. That spilled cheese in the oven will burn away eventually. It just takes time. 

photo: Sarah Lee