The empty space of connection, the gathering, Pulses with a vibrant energy I only observe. It hums with plans already made, A detailed itinerary, a map of places where I do not go. My position is fixed: outside. I don’t move; I only watch the colors of the evening fade From my window, a slow drain of warmth and light. My world is contained, defined by sitting in the light of what I know.
The knowledge I possess is isolating, sharp: That laughter sounds much louder through a wall— Magnified by the barrier that separates their joy, A painful noise. And conversely, Silence is a heavy thing to wear, A cloak woven from unsaid words. It presses down, making breathing difficult. So, I maintain a silent vigil. I wait for pings, for any word at all, A simple notification, an anchor thrown, To prove that, in their minds, I’m standing there.
The name of “friend,” I embraced fully; We call them friends; I gave the name with pride, A sacred title for those to whom I opened life. I shared my secrets, listened to their own, Believing in a mutual exchange, a balanced scale. But now I wonder, standing on the side, A silent observer of their motion, If that foundation was solid. The crucial question takes root: If I am liked, or simply “loosely known.”
A chilling suspicion whispers of self-doubt: Is there a secret vote I didn’t see? A quiet pact to leave the chair unfilled? Or is the truth more passive, more insidious? Or is the lack of room inside the spree The consequence of slow emotional detachment? It feels like The way a dying fire is slowly stilled, The warmth receding until only ash remains. The question I need to ask is too large, too sharp to utter; It stays in my mind, a burning inscription in the dark: Do I have friends, or people I just know? Did I misjudge the reality of the bond? Did I mistake a flicker for a spark? The uncertainty is exhausting, forcing a decision: Is it my cue to turn around and go?
The core of the issue is heartbreaking simplicity: For if they wanted me, they’d find the space, They’d actively rearrange the elements of their plan. They’d reach across the gap to pull me through. This is the ultimate loneliness I face: There’s nothing lonelier than a familiar face— A face I thought knew me— That looks at everything—but never you.
Two years ago, the entire leadership team from my school embarked on a profoundly transformative professional development expedition to Atlanta, Georgia. The core objective of this significant journey was to visit and conduct intensive, first-hand observation of The Ron Clark Academy (RCA), a globally recognized non-profit middle school renowned for its innovative and dynamic teaching methodologies, its high student engagement, and its distinctly unique, vibrant school culture. Located in a renovated red brick warehouse in southeast Atlanta, RCA serves students in grades four through eight from a wide range of economic backgrounds. The school’s co-founder, Kim Bearden, along with its namesake, Ron Clark, have cultivated an educational model that has inspired educators worldwide.
It is a source of personal regret that I have not yet been able to participate in this impactful trip. Initially, my exclusion was purely due to my not being a member of the official school leadership team, which was the sole group invited in the first year of the opportunity. However, in the subsequent year, as the possibility arose again, I remember earnestly praying that I would somehow be afforded the chance to go. The powerful, albeit painful, lesson I learned from this experience has now become my personal motto: “Ask and you shall receive,” because, unfortunately, I never vocalized my strong desire to attend to anyone. I had kept that deep-seated wish entirely to myself, a silent aspiration that went unheard.
This observation trip proved to be a pivotal and eye-opening experience for our school’s leadership, furnishing them with a wealth of concrete insights, immediately practical classroom strategies, and a deeper philosophical understanding of student-centric education. Upon their return, they commenced the diligent and focused work of implementing a substantial number of the learned techniques, philosophical underpinnings, and cultural elements into our own school environment. This was not a superficial adoption, but a committed, authentic integration of RCA’s successful and proven models into our own unique context.
While I have not yet had the supreme opportunity to visit the physical school itself, I have taken every chance to extensively view a multitude of high-quality videos and photographs of The Ron Clark Academy. From this media, its vibrant, dynamic atmosphere truly appears remarkable and immensely inspiring. The school itself is distinctively and innovatively set up in a former warehouse facility located in downtown Atlanta, Georgia, which contributes profoundly to its unique, non-traditional identity and provides a wonderfully inspiring learning space far removed from the sterile, typical school setting. The environment itself is a powerful testament to the belief that the learning space should inspire creativity and passion.The Impact of the House System.
One of the most significant, visible, and universally successful cultural changes we implemented was the “House System,” a structure famously utilized and perfected by RCA. This system is powerfully reminiscent of the house divisions found in the Harry Potter series, which instantly resonated with our students, injecting an immediate element of magic and fun. Our entire student body was strategically and purposefully divided into various houses, and the subsequent impact of this initiative has been nothing short of profound. The House System has skillfully fostered a powerful and deep-seated sense of belonging and community, ensuring that every single student feels like an integral and valued part of a larger, supportive group, thereby powerfully combating feelings of isolation and disconnection.
This increased sense of connection, camaraderie, and purpose has yielded tangible, measurable, and overwhelmingly positive results, most notably in student attendance. I have personally observed a noticeable and sustained increase in daily student attendance rates across all grade levels. In fact, the demonstrable success of this system was a direct factor contributing to our school proudly winning the district-wide high attendance award for all ten months of the previous school year. Furthermore, I am incredibly proud to report that we have continued this impressive and positive streak, successfully winning the award for every single month so far this current school year. The House System has not only been instrumental in boosting attendance but has also injected a completely new level of energy, excitement, positive peer competition, and overall enthusiasm into our daily school life.
Our school is currently organized into four distinct houses, which we named Amistad, Isibindi, Altruismo, and Rêveur—adopting the exact names used at The Ron Clark Academy. I have the honor of being one of the proud house leaders for Rêveur. The entire staff was asked to thoughtfully choose a house they felt they best aligned with, based on the core values.The Ron Clark Academy House System Values The Ron Clark Academy (RCA) houses are all themed around fundamental, positive character traits and deep multicultural connections. Their original names and associated values are:
Rêveur (Dreamers): This name is derived from French, meaning dreamers or idealists. It represents students who are passionate, imaginative visionaries who pursue their goals fearlessly, encouraging them to think big and challenge the status quo.
Amistad (Friendship): Rooted in Spanish and Mexican culture, this name signifies friendship. It strongly emphasizes kindness, unity, and an unconquered, resilient spirit, promoting collaboration and mutual respect.
Isibindi (Courage): Hailing from the Zulu language, this word means courageous. It focuses on strength and bravery, and is particularly helpful in encouraging shy or hesitant students to grow, find their voice, and take calculated risks.
Altruismo (Giving): Originating from Portuguese and Spanish, this name means the givers. It profoundly highlights the philosophy that the greatest rewards in life come from giving selflessly to others, fostering a culture of service and empathy.
These house names and their associated values are all strategically designed to foster a powerful sense of community, build strong leadership skills in all students, and promote healthy, positive competition through shared values and traditions, which are celebrated through ceremonies and house challenges.
When the staff was asked to choose their house, I thoroughly went through the core values of each, contemplating which house truly fit my personal and professional ethos the best. While I greatly admire the idea of friendship and the profound selflessness of giving, as a dedicated special education teacher, I frequently find myself deeply immersed in dreaming and wanting my students to reach for the stars—to aspire beyond their perceived limitations. I possess an unwavering passion and a resolute “never give up” attitude for my students’ potential.
There is a common and poignant saying that when people stop pushing you, it is because they have given up on you. I refuse to ever give up on a student, regardless of the challenges they face. I firmly believe that there is inherent talent, capability, and fundamental good in all students and, indeed, in all people. This passionate belief in the limitless potential of my students and my commitment to helping them visualize a future beyond their current circumstances made my choice clear, and I proudly became a leader for Rêveur, the House of the Dreamers.A Dream Realized
Though I could never visit the school, I never gave up on that quiet, deep-seated wish. My personal motto, born from the initial disappointment, finally paved the way for a remarkable opportunity. In early fall, my principal sent all of us an email from Sonic, the restaurant (not the hedgehog, as is often joked). It was a scholarship application to win a chance—an all-expenses-paid trip—to go and visit The Ron Clark Academy and participate in an intensive, two-day educators’ professional development workshop. I took about three days, working diligently on the application, meticulously crafting what I would say, how I would articulate my passion, and how I would convey my excitement and unwavering dedication to my students and their future.
On December 10th, I found out that I was chosen to go to this professional development session. I screamed with pure elation when I got the email. It felt like the universe had finally rewarded my silent, persistent dream. I have no idea exactly what I will learn, what new strategies I will bring back, or how my perspective will shift, but I am always incredibly excited to learn new things and bring best practices back to my school and my students. This is the fulfillment of a long-held aspiration.
The Ron Clark Academy, a non-profit middle school, is housed in a renovated red brick warehouse located in southeast Atlanta, Georgia, United States. Founded by Ron Clark and co-founder Kim Bearden, the school has students in fourth through eighth grades, from a wide range of economic backgrounds.
The world changed overnight… 🧟♀️ Are you ready for the fight for survival? Dive into “Zombie: The Survivors” by Nancy Ann Creed and see who makes it out alive. Tap the link in bio to grab your copy! What’s the first thing you’d grab in a zombie apocalypse?
I am utterly exhausted by this relentless play, The heavy curtain of performance drawn too long. I cannot hold the hollow smile another day, To mask the deep, the aching emptiness that’s wrong.
The burden of a self that isn’t mine to wear, To fit the mold you fashioned, cruel and tight, An agonizing stretch away from who I care To be—my own identity, eclipsed by your light. You see a project, a design that must be met, But tell me, why must the authentic me be cast aside?
I am finished fabricating reasons I have set, For every thought and every reaction I can’t hide. I’ve justified my nature to a vacant crowd, To people who, I now accept, simply don’t care.
The painful truth: my hope was spoken out loud, A unilateral effort lost on thin, cold air. I poured my heart to mend what broke between, But found no shared commitment, no reciprocal tide, A solitary swimmer in an apathetic scene.
The loneliness, a constant, heavy friend, A silent weight that settles on my weary chest. It is an awful life, but if this is the end— The price of being whole, of being finally blessed To be myself—then I will pay the cost, Choosing difficult solitude to rescue what was lost.
A burning, sharp anger now begins to rise, A desperate need to shatter this profound pain. But I know with bleak certainty in my own eyes, That fury would be wasted, dissipating like the rain.
This crushing truth has settled, stark and clear: Nothing I say, nothing I do or fail to be, Holds any weight for them, for those who stand so near. My voice is mute, my actions they refuse to see.
They are truly, utterly indifferent to my strife, They do not pause to question what my heart endures. My suffering, my struggle, the very pulse of life, Is an irrelevance that their coldness secures.
I feel the urge to weep the entire day away, To curl beneath the covers, let the sadness claim, But reason whispers of a temporary stay, No lasting remedy to solve this bitter game.
The torrent of resentment pleads to be set free, A physical demand I check with weary hand, Because the simple, crushing truth remains with me: It will not change a thing across this barren land.
A complete despair now chills me to the bone, In this cold context, in this life they have defined, The heartbreaking finality I stand upon alone, The truth that leaves no solace for the mind:
A flicker in the digital sea, A ripple in the ocean vast, Announced a message, unanticipated, free, A bridge to years and moments past. No expectation, no alarm, A serendipitous, sudden light, A warmth against the day’s long harm, Dispelling shadows of the night.
The sender’s name, a long-lost friend, Appeared upon the silent screen, A cherished sight without end, Recalling what had been. A powerful, unexpected force, Across the void of silent years, Washing away the quiet remorse, And vanquishing old, silent fears.
A wave of joy, a deep embrace, Surged through the heart, dissolving time, As memories rushed, swift in their chase, Like a rushing, vibrant tide sublime. Laughter shared, a youthful sound, Secrets told in hushed reply, A core of trust that could be found, A sturdy thread beneath the sky.
Across the miles that held them fast, The vital connection instantly made, The digital form, a vessel cast, Where friendship’s enduring flame was played. Passionately kindled, burning bright, Unafraid of intervening years, A testament to affection’s might, Dispelling all the rising tears.
The quick exchange of grateful hearts, A quiet acknowledgement of grace, The inner vision of eyes that starts, Smiling across time and space. This sudden reunion, taking flight, A potent reminder, clear and true, Some bonds are not defined by sight, But by a spirit time can’t undo.
We walked the same path, pen in hand, Mind alight, a shared commitment’s sign. Pilgrims in a lonely, distant land, Chasing the same bright star, divine. Our bond, once firm, was forged by toil, Ink-smudged paper, the screen’s harsh glow, A hopeful process on a hungry soil, A private weight the outside doesn’t know.
But when the harvest comes, a sudden wrench, The seed you sow brings fruit upon my ground. The garden blooms, across a mutual bench, But only your name is on the flowers found. My careful work, the agonizing hours, My every effort, tragically the same, Is rendered Invisible, stripped of all its powers, Swallowed whole by an eclipsing fame.
They gather ’round your posts, a swelling tide, A deluge of bright approvals, warm and fast. Endorsements flow, they cannot seem to hide The joy they feel that you have made it last. I am a shadow in this scene so bright, An old contact they vaguely knew, unheard. They click the heart, basking in your light, But never glance upon my waiting, silent word.
Our dear ‘mutuals,’ who claimed a deep-felt tie, Are quick to share your links, to elevate. They laud your verse beneath the public sky, While my own craft lies in a silent state. So forms the question in my empty chest: Is it the work, the art’s intrinsic worth, Or merely the loud acclaim they love the best? The rising star, or the quiet flame of birth?
If friendship is a mirror, clean and true, Reflecting back the efforts we impart, What does their universal silence do To my ignored, distant, lonely star? If you are seen, and I am a pale ghost, Haunting the edge of your success and grace, Who is the friend, and who is merely the host, Ignoring the guest who waits within the space?|
The heart grows bitter, chilling doubt takes root. They loved the writer, the idea of the name, And not the soul, the person who bore the fruit, In the quiet, solitary, unlit flame. The bonds we trusted, once so strong and high, Were not of iron, nor loyalty’s hard line, But paper, flimsy, easy to pass by, Disposable in the blinding fire of your shine.
I lost the ones I thought would be An immutable part of my life’s tapestry, Woven forever. Their sudden fraying left A hollow space, of laughter now bereft. A loss not just of presence, but of promised time, Of futures guaranteed, of permanence sublime.
I lost the endless, open channel’s flow, The casual intimate, the profound talk’s low. The message history remains, a silent tomb, But the living dialogue has met its doom. I lost the shared language, the inside joke’s release, The easy flow of thought that came with sustained peace.
I lost. And yet, a nagging question stays: How to reclaim it all through monumental days? More honest now, a deeper query rings: Do I want the fragments back, the broken things, Or is this void an opportunity instead, For a different, stronger rebuilding from the dead?
I am Socially Impaired, a deep deficiency, No compass for connection’s subtle geography. I cannot decode the rules that ever shift, To make a friend, or keep one from the drift. No knowledge of the delicate dance to start, Nor sustained effort to hold a drifting heart.
The world outside, a dizzying, digital torrent, Of career demands, and social lives hyper-currant. My mind, a labyrinth of static and confusion, Makes reaching out a Herculean illusion. The busy world’s quick rhythm, my slow, internal pace, Exacerbate the disconnect in this human space.
I am Socially Impaired, an alien I feel, A non-native in a world that seems unreal. Effortless for others, each social interaction Requires exhausting, conscious translation. Lost in this world of confusion, inescapable, vast, The mechanics of connection hold me fast.
What proper alchemy transforms the passing name, An acquaintance pleasant, into a trusted flame? What ritual’s required to solidify the friend, To confidant and pillar, on whom one can depend? How to tend this garden so it thrives, not withers thin? The vital lessons of these bonds were never written in.
In this struggle, I lost my authentic self’s deep call, My unique longings muffled by the noise of it all. Lost beneath the effort to be what others sought, My own desires indistinct, in the battles fought.
I lost the subtle nuances, the unspoken art, The reading of the body, the comforting hand’s part. The effortless mirroring of mood, the perfect timing’s grace, The tools that equip others to master social space. Without them, I operated blind in the dense fog, Lost in isolation’s self-doubt, like a log.
But then a tectonic shift occurred within the night, The fog dispersed, pierced by an internal light. The finding was no external, sudden grace, But a revelation born from that empty space.
I Found a core of unshakeable strength inside, No longer contingent on where others reside. A self-sustaining power, a bedrock I possess, To hold and to rely upon in times of stress.
I Found new forms of connection, soul-deep and true, With people who truly see me, and see me anew. Bonds built on mutual resilience, not proximity’s plea, These are the conversations that will not end for me.
I Found a powerful, relentless love, not on condition, A self-acceptance, a profound self-compassion. No longer scanning horizons for where worth has fled, I carry the source within, in the words I have said. It is a love that will not quit, a permanent estate, A fortress built from inside, sealed by my own gate.
The shadow falls, a failure in my sight, Disappointment’s echo, haunting day and night. Regret’s cold hand upon my waking thought, A hollow dream, the battle that we fought.
A profound, persistent ache resides within, A deep, visceral wound where grief begins. Each time the news arrives, a soul has gone, The numbers climb, yet tragedy lives on.
For those now lost within the heavy fog, This deep despair, no fleeting shadow slog, It raises questions that torment the soul: How could we shield them, how regain control?
What could I, personally, have done to reach, To pull them back, beyond the final beach? Why do such vibrant lives, with potential vast, End in this final, devastating, broken blast?
The pain, a sickening, immediate jolt, A punch that leaves me breathless and unbolt. Another one lost, a cycle we can’t cease, The repetition numbs, yet sharp remains the piece.
A desperate cry: What can be truly done, When the tide of loss engulfs the rising sun? We must find answers, a pathway to prevent, A strategy of hope, with all our power lent.
What can we do, right now, with urgent plea, To stop this cycle of futility? They were too young, their promise yet untold, A song cut short, a story left untold.
Reduced to cold, impersonal distress, A public crisis we cannot suppress. The lives they were, a silence left behind, Deafening echoes of the best of humankind.
👶 C-Section or VBAC: A Personal Dilemma Before the birth of my second child, Van, who is now fourteen, I wrote this reflection. My thoughts were consumed by the looming decision regarding his delivery, a topic that held particular weight because his older sister, Zelda, had been born via Cesarean section. The experience with Zelda naturally led us to question the safest and best approach for the next delivery. The medical term that dominated our discussions was Vaginal Birth After C-section (VBAC). The prospect was alluring—the promise of a standard delivery and recovery—but it came with a significant degree of anxiety and risk. On the other hand, a planned repeat C-section offered a predictable, though major, surgical procedure.
Ultimately, after careful consideration and consultation with our doctors, Van was born via C-section in the end. This was a deliberate choice. A major factor in our decision was the estimate of his size; he was projected to be larger than Zelda was at birth. Given the potential complications associated with a larger baby and a VBAC—including the elevated risk of an emergency situation—we concluded that a scheduled C-section was the prudent and safest path forward for both me and for Van. Looking back, we remain confident that we made the best decision possible given the medical circumstances and information available to us at the time.
This period of deliberation was particularly intense, and a memory that solidified our choice came from a friend who was navigating the very same decision. Unlike us, she was determined to have a vaginal birth. Tragically, her attempt to deliver vaginally had a severe complication: the baby eventually had to be delivered via emergency C-section because her uterine scar ruptured. That outcome was a powerful, sobering reminder of the very real risks involved in a VBAC and served to validate our decision to proceed with a planned C-section for Van.
👶 C-Section or VBAC: A Personal Dilemma November 6, 2010 A Crossroads in the Journey: Weighing the Path for Baby Van
My husband, Devin, and I find ourselves at a significant and emotionally charged crossroads, desperately trying to discern the safest and most responsible path forward for the arrival of our new baby, Van. Devin, ever my rock, is completely wonderful and has expressed his contentment in leaving the ultimate decision to me. Yet, this freedom, while loving, leaves me utterly and completely torn between two very different medical routes. The core of my internal debate revolves around the stark reality that both a planned, repeat Cesarean section and the attempt at a VBAC (Vaginal Birth After C-section) carry distinct and real risks. This isn’t a theoretical concern; it’s rooted in our history. Our first child, our daughter Zelda, was born via an emergency C-section back in October 2009. Now, with Van due in January 2011, the pregnancies are undeniably close—separated by only fifteen months. This remarkably short inter-pregnancy interval is the single factor that haunts my thoughts, as I constantly worry about how it impacts the integrity of my uterine scar and, consequently, the safety of my decision.
My doctor has been a source of both extensive knowledge and, paradoxically, conflicting advice. Her insights are helpful, but they pull me in two different directions. On the one hand, she strongly suggested that a VBAC would be the preferable route if our family’s long-term vision includes having more children. It would reduce the accumulated risk of multiple major abdominal surgeries. On the other hand, she was quick to reassure me of the relative safety of repeat procedures, noting that I could safely have three C-sections, and we all know people who have gone on to successfully manage four!
This is where my deepest, most agonizing fear resides: the potential to inadvertently place Van in danger. The thought of pursuing a VBAC simply to preserve the option for a larger family down the road feels selfish if it means even a fraction of a percent increase in risk for my baby boy now. I am consumed by the singular desire to know, unequivocally, which of these two paths—a surgical birth or a trial of labor—offers the healthiest start for my baby boy. It’s a decision that feels too heavy to carry alone, and I would genuinely welcome any thoughts, shared experiences, or perspectives from others who have faced this delicate and difficult medical dilemma.
The Case for a Scheduled C-Section The decision to schedule the birth of our second child is overwhelmingly influenced by practical considerations, a choice that promises to significantly simplify our lives. The logistics surrounding Devin’s demanding job make a planned event almost a necessity; eliminating the uncertainty of when labor might strike ensures he can arrange his work schedule with confidence, minimizing potential disruption and stress for him. Furthermore, arranging childcare for our first daughter, Zelda, is greatly simplified. My cousin, who has graciously offered to help, would benefit immensely from a concrete date, allowing her to make firm plans without the anxiety of a last-minute emergency call.
Beyond the external logistics, scheduling a C-section offers a path to avoid the intense emotional and physical stress I experienced during Zelda’s birth. That spontaneous labor ultimately devolved into a frantic, emergency Cesarean section, a traumatic experience I am keen to prevent repeating. Since a medical induction, which was attempted with Zelda, is not an option this time, choosing a scheduled surgery provides a sense of control and predictability that a trial of labor simply cannot.
There are also encouraging assurances regarding the recovery process. I’ve been advised that a second C-section is often associated with a faster and easier recovery than the first. This is a considerable benefit in itself, but it also translates into a more extended period of approved time off work, a crucial factor for both my physical and mental recuperation.
The advantages of a planned surgery extend to the medical setting as well. A scheduled date means I can actively choose my preferred surgeon, ensuring continuity of care with a doctor I trust. The operating room environment will be calm, prepared, and routine, far removed from the rush, worry, and fear associated with a sudden, unscheduled emergency. We can walk into the hospital knowing exactly what to expect.
However, the weight of this decision rests on one major, permanent drawback. Committing to a scheduled C-section means accepting that a vaginal birth is no longer a possibility for me. Every future child we are blessed with will, by necessity, have to be delivered via Cesarean section. This single choice sets the course for all our future births.
The Appeal of a VBAC The upcoming delivery is consuming my thoughts, primarily because of the intense desire for a successful Vaginal Birth After Cesarean (VBAC). The very idea of achieving a vaginal delivery is tremendously exciting—it’s a deeply personal milestone that offers such freedom. A successful VBAC would finally open up the possibility of having more children in the future without the looming certainty of another major surgery every single time. It would mean that my family planning is dictated by nature and readiness, not by a surgeon’s calendar.
Beyond the long-term implications, I strongly believe a vaginal delivery will make the immediate postpartum period much easier to navigate. I vividly remember the grueling recovery from my first C-section; the incision pain, the inability to move easily, and the extended time before I truly felt like myself again. I imagine, and desperately hope, that the post-delivery pain following a VBAC won’t be nearly as intense or debilitating, allowing me to be more present and active with my newborn, Van.
Regarding the logistics of the delivery, I’ve made the firm decision to have an epidural. This was not a choice made lightly but was largely influenced by the medical advice I received. The doctors presented it as a crucial safety net: in the event that the trial of labor became unstable or if we encountered an emergency that necessitated a repeat C-section, they could simply administer additional anesthetic through the already-placed epidural line. This would eliminate the dangerous time delay of having to perform general anesthesia.
However, the single biggest factor driving my preference for a VBAC is the timing of the birth. A vaginal delivery allows Van to determine his own birthday, coming when his body and lungs are truly ready. I have a profound anxiety about the standard C-section protocol, which typically schedules the surgery a week or two earlier than the due date to prevent the onset of labor. I worry that this premature exit will deprive him of the final, necessary days or even weeks of development in the womb—time that is so vital for the maturation of his organs and systems. The thought of him coming out before he has reached his optimal readiness weighs heavily on me.
Conclusion I understand and deeply respect that the doctors and medical team are the experts, possessing the knowledge and experience to guide this process safely. Yet, despite their assurances and statistics, this choice feels so immense, so personal, and so loaded with emotional weight. It is not just a medical procedure; it is the gateway to my child’s life and a defining moment in my own journey as a mother. I am finding myself at a crossroads, balancing medical recommendations against my strong maternal instincts and deeply felt desires. More than anything, I am hoping to connect with other mothers who have walked this path—to hear what specific challenges they faced during their own VBAC attempts, what resources or conversations ultimately helped them find peace and certainty about their final decision, and how they reconciled the inherent risks with the profound reward. On January 17, 2011, I gave birth via-c-section to a healthy baby boy. He is not 14 years old and in the 8th grade.
When darkness falls upon a soul you know, And misconduct is the seed that they sow, When actions pierce the better self you see, And they depart from how they ought to be, A higher call demands your swift response, Beyond the simple bitterness of offense.
Specifically, when they project their strife, Inflicting turmoil on another life, When pain and discontent are thrust outside, And unkindness is the path where they ride— And when their negativity is aimed at you, The target of the anger they accrue— The time for action is not a fight, But deep engagement in the spirit’s light. The clear command is given from above: You should pray. Your prayer is bound by love.
This is a prayer with purpose dual-faced, For strength to face the hurt that is embraced. Pray earnestly to guard your inner soul, For wisdom, grace, and to achieve your goal: To stand against injustice, firm and true, Lest roots of bitterness take hold of you. And simultaneously, with fervent heart, Pray unceasingly to heal their broken part.
Petition for their spirit’s restoration, For sight, repentance, and illumination. Pray for their clarity, that the dark fog That clouds their judgment might begin to jog. May truth reveal the nature of their deed, The bitter pain that plants the hurtful seed.
Your prayer’s an act of purity and might, A divine request for what is good and right. Pray that the toxic urge to hold offense, All hatred, vengeance, and poor recompense, Be fully purged from where your feelings lie. Pray that true peace, the peace that reaches high, That surpasses knowledge, may reside within, A shield against the chaos and the sin. And pray for grace to grant them full release, To find compassion for their lack of peace, Recognizing that the hurt they impart Is but a symptom of their wounded heart.
You know the truth; denial finds no space, A certainty of wrong you have to face. They operate outside their healthy sphere, Not as the self they ought to hold so dear. You know they act as wounded, lost, and frail, Beyond a doubt, they stumble and they fail. Given this truth, this knowledge you possess, Your duty is to fully intercess. You need to pray.
This sacred work requires commitment strong, Independent of who says that you are wrong. You need to pray, though you are ostracized, Misunderstood, or wholly unadvised. You need to pray, though they who cause the woe Discourage faith and bid your efforts slow. Resolve within, in the core of your deep soul, That you will never yield to their control. Let your prayer be a sanctuary, ever near, A tireless beacon, banishing all fear, For your own soul, and for the troubled one Whose inner struggle means the harm is done.
