Keeping Time in May
Content note: pregnancy loss; loss of a parent; grief
The word “mayday” has been used for a little more than century as a distress signal. It originated in Europe.
May Day is celebrated on May 1 to mark the beginning of summer. It also originated in Europe.
The two share no common origins beyond that.
“Mayday” was meant to signal a life or death emergency, and May Day is meant to mark new life, dancing and singing, bringing in wildflowers, crowning a Queen of May, and countless other festivals and traditions.
***
Catholics dedicate the entire month of May to Mary, to the mother of God, to the one they call the spiritual Mother of us all.
When I think about this relationship between a mother and child, one that is often so tender, I think about how we miss out in the American church. How much we lose when we don’t think about Jesus as a baby or Mary as a young mother.
They played, just like we do. First bites and first steps. Snuggles. Comforting words. Rocking back and forth in the middle of the night.
There’s a 13th century Byzantine carving at The Met of the infant Jesus in Mary’s arms, and it’s one of the most delightful depictions of them that I’ve ever encountered. He’s playfully grabbing her chin as she holds his toes.
***
This year there are two full moons in May—a blue moon.
This is rare. Rare enough that we built a phrase around it: once in a blue moon. I do not know the astrological significance, though my friends insist there is one.
I also know it is rare to have as many miscarriages as I have had, and that my first one was in May.
***
May is a strange month for me personally. There are a number of significant and perhaps not so significant dates. Sad ones and not so sad ones. There are days where these moments feel indistinguishable from one another.
I am a person who likes to mark time. I like anniversaries. I like to notice things. I suppose I have a brain that decides many dates are significant, that moments are marked in a way that others might not. I do not know if this is neurodivergence or the way that I was raised or culture, or some combination of the three.
***
I also recently learned that May’s full moon is called the Flower Moon.
And I learned that the second full moon, on May 31, is going to be something called a micromoon—the moon at apogee, its farthest point from Earth.
I also asked for a divorce at the end of May. Up to that point, it was the farthest I had ever felt from the life I thought I was building. My own relational apogee.
I learned, too, that the May moon has other names: the Budding Moon, the Egg Laying Moon, the Frog Moon, the Milk Moon.
All of them sound a little like summer to me.
***
In the South, we tend to mark summer as beginning in May, somewhere around the end of the school year or Memorial Day, though technically it arrives in June.
But summer is complicated for someone with the diagnoses I have. Chronic illness creeps up slowly, then all at once. The heat—as much as I love the sensation of the warm sun on my face and body—also drains me.
Water alone is not enough when salt and electrolytes become a game of precision, when fatigue means something deeper than not enough sleep. When my doctors and family have described what happens to me as “wilting” without the right care.
I know that some people, some experts—professionals, therapists, the “woo,” the scientific—believe chronic illness can emerge after a lifetime of stress.
Of course, our bodies can be shaped by countless things: genetics, grief, pregnancy, stress, time.
But I wonder: is all of this actually stress? Is it growth? Learning? And how much strain can a body endure before it is permanently altered?
***
I remember during my first pregnancy how many questions and complicated words were given to us during those early ultrasounds.
I was at the beach in yet another May when I got the phone call that the test results were abnormal, and could I come in that day.
“I’m in Florida,” I told the nurse.
We scheduled an ultrasound and blood draw for the following week. More tests, more ultrasounds, more waiting before everything was deemed “normal.”
***
I think about Jesus and his mother again. About Mary being stopped by Simeon in the temple. I wonder what his words meant to her—confirmation and validation? Or just another worry on a young mother’s already burdened heart?
I think about my second pregnancy—when my water broke at 32 weeks and I sat in the hospital for days waiting to deliver, then my baby was whisked away to the NICU before I could truly connect with her.
I think about Mary years later, looking up at her son take His final earthly breath. How even though she knew what she was called to, it probably still didn’t feel like enough.
Motherhood is funny this way. We are given a gift, an opportunity to endure and live and carry immensely beautiful and difficult things for and with our families. And still, the time never feels like enough.
***
I know that my father died in May, on Mother’s Day.
That I was at work that day, even though he did not want me to go. But I wanted the shift at that stupid bar where they injected steaks with butter because the Sunday tips were decent. Maybe I wanted to work because I already felt like a disappointment, and at least I could make some money. I don’t know.
My mother called me again and again. I finally answered, shoved receipts and cash into my manager’s hands, and drove home.
This May (and, to the dismay of at least a few, I am sure) I find myself believing some Christians I know are wrong. That even though my father never made a public profession of faith or prayed a sinner’s prayer, he is not trapped in eternal torment. Because his earthly life, filled with illness after illness, was torment enough.
I like to believe that he is sitting in some heavenly afterlife entertaining the babies that I lost, including that first one from that May morning. I imagine him teaching them card tricks and inventing bedtime stories.
I imagine that even in heaven, babies take naps. Because there is nothing more glorious than watching a baby sleep, tiny puckered lips occasionally cooing as they gently breathe in and out.
Nothing that has taught me more about the heart of God for humanity than the way that I love my children.
***
I know that Mother’s Day itself began not as a Hallmark holiday, but as a movement—women organizing to reduce infant mortality, to care for mothers and children, to call for peace during a time of war. Eventually it became a national holiday honoring mothers in the home.
And then, somehow, we became the project managers of everyone else’s brunches and crafts and emotional labor. How beautiful. How honoring. How exhausting. Isn’t that how it always goes?
I know that Mother’s Day is bittersweet. Not just for me, but for a lot of people.
***
I know the two most significant romantic relationships of my life were with men born in May. I do not know the astrological significance of that, either, though I am certain someone would explain it to me if I asked.
I also know that one of the first men who got frustrated with me for saying no to intimacy after a date got frustrated in the month of May. Was he even a man? I was still in high school, and he had just graduated. Soon after, he ended things, saying college would be too complicated, that he wanted freedom. I am relieved by this now. But for years, I believed it was my fault.
I know another boyfriend I had after him “waited” until I was ready, though he regularly reminded me that his friends “couldn’t believe” we still had not “done it.” Sometimes he broke up with me just long enough to hook up with other girls. I blamed myself for that, too.
And I know that I loved and loved and loved again, until eventually I met someone I believed would be my forever.
And then, in yet another May, it was over again.
***
And now I am a nearly a year into this, whatever this is. Marking time. Keeping time. Doing my best to honor a new season.
A friend encouraged me to make a list of all the firsts that would transpire after my divorce and mark them off. I never made the list, but I have tried to notice them.
My first time throwing a child’s birthday party.
Navigating a major home repair.
Filing my taxes.
Road trip itineraries.
Hanging Christmas lights…
It has been complex and emotional.
So often, I wish I could move backward through time to each version of myself and tenderly gather her into my arms.
May after May, embracing a younger and younger Sunita, filling her with power and self worth and tenderness and autonomy.
Stroking her hair and gently whispering:
You are enough. You have always been enough.
Bits & Bobs
Workshop Rescheduled | Due to some unexpected work being done at my house, I had to reschedule this writing workshop to 5/23! I’ve extended the Mother’s Day discount to 5/15, so you can use MAMA for 30% off. Founding Members who subscribe here also still get free workshop access every year, so upgrade your subscription if you haven’t already!
I attended my 20 year high school reunion recently! | Some thoughts and photos on Instagram here.
New Paris Paloma Song | It’s intense and raw, and the music video is something to behold.
Neurodivergent Faith Podcast | Several of my favorite people have been on recent episodes of Josh’s podcast. If you’re a Christian and want an accessible, thoughtful listen about the places that neurodivergence and Christian faith intersect, this is a great listen.
I know this was a bit different than my usual content. I appreciate you being here. Thank you for reading. 👋
"So often, I wish I could move backward through time to each version of myself and tenderly gather her into my arms." ❤️❤️❤️