Tale of a Broodmare

Pain in childbirth takes all forms. But love heals all wounds.

In the dead of winter, late in the lame duck period of Barack Obama’s presidency, I went to a fertility clinic in Nashville and tried to conceive a baby.

Patrick and I had been “trying” for three years, a stretch of barrenness previously unfathomable to me. For reasons I cannot remember, Patrick did not come with me to the appointment. I am sure I told him it was no big deal, but now that I think back on the day, I feel in my heart a kind of aching sorrow. Medical advances have divided all the necessary elements of conception to such an extent that the two people responsible for the life of a child don’t even have to be present for the event.

I drove across town alone. Parked my car. Walked through the maze of the hospital. I found my way to the clinic waiting room, and flipped through an old issue of House Beautiful until a nurse called my name and directed me to an interior exam room. I got undressed, put on the pale yellow hospital gown. There was a clock on the wall, one of the big round ones like they used to have in school, and I remember sitting on the cold exam table watching the red second hand glide smoothly around the numbers, counting time.

Eventually, another nurse arrived with some vials and utensils on a tray. She told me to lay back on the table. She said it would not hurt.

“Just a little pressure,” she said.

I looked at the ceiling. At the goosebumps rising on my flesh. At the second hand, ticking away. The whole thing was over in less than two minutes. Afterward, the nurse said to wait for another fifteen minutes and then I could leave. I could take a pregnancy test in two weeks.

“Two weeks from now is my birthday,” I said. My twenty-ninth. Everyone told us not to worry; Patrick and I were still so young. There was still so much time.

The nurse looked at me with sadness in her eyes, then smiled and said, “Fingers crossed.” She let the door close behind her and then left me there to watch the clock.

Seven years and two Presidential administrations have passed since then. So much has happened in that time and it seems impolite to talk about these old memories. Do I sound like a broken record? Do I sound broken? The winding road we traveled led us to our two beautiful children, brought to our family through adoption, and I would not change any of that. And yet. I can’t help but admit that some wounds of infertility persist, years and years later. My stomach clenches when I think of the heavy hope I carried in those years, and the tidal wave of grief that crashed over me following every failed attempt. Call it “medical intervention” or “fertility treatment” or “help.” Looking back, the entire experience seems dystopian and desperately lonely.

Even our adoption experiences, while beautiful, likewise carry specific sorrow and grief.

All these memories have been surfacing a lot because (1) I am working on a new section of the book-in-progress that deals with infertility, and (2) I had a recent experience that offered an unexpected dose of healing.

A few weeks ago, I attended a three-day artist’s retreat in Santa Fe, New Mexico with the 2023 Lincoln City Fellows provided by the Speranza Foundation. The entire weekend was full of deep, heartfelt moments of kindness and connection and included a visit to Emma Hess and Joost Lammers’ sprawling desert horse sanctuary, called A Chance of a Lifetime.

When we first arrived, there was a precious stillness in the air. There were six artists in my cohort, plus a few additional members of the Lincoln City Fellowship team. Our hosts, Joost and Erica, had tanned, weathered skin, and their eyes shimmered with feeling. They have spent their lives rehabilitating abused and neglected horses, and in turn, those horses provide equine therapy to men and women in recovery from their own hurts and traumas.

The trainers welcomed us in, and invited us to take a quiet walk around the ranch to familiarize ourselves with the sights and smells. Horse manure. Hay. A big bright sky overhead. There were eight or nine horses grazing — one shiny black, others speckled brown and white, a tall chestnut brown mare.

“You must be Claire,” Erica said, when we hugged. She turned to one of the other horse trainers, Annette. “She seems like an Emma girl, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” said Annette. “Definitely.”

“Emma?” I asked, confused.

Annette pointed to the gray and white marbled horse grazing a few dozen feet away. The horse was beautiful. But then again, all the horses were beautiful.

Erica and Joost invited us to sit in a circle, then led us in moments of silence and sharing. As we prepared to interact with the horses, Joost warned that the horses could not tolerate “incongruence.” After a lifetime of abuse and neglect, the animals had learned not to trust people who came toward them with any misalignment of intention. The only safe way to approach was by moving slowly and in total honesty. After some more instruction, they invited us to spread out and approach the horses. I look over at Annette. She waved and invited me to come closer to Emma.

Emma had her face down to the ground, searching for hay. I didn’t know if the horse would be skittish, if she would trust me, or if I could produce the kind of “congruence” Joost said was needed. So much of my life feels like posturing or pretending. With my kids, I act like I know what I’m doing. With new friends, I feign more confidence than I have. With my dentist, I promise that I floss twice a day. But with Emma, I couldn’t hide. “Please accept me,” I thought, as I rested a hand on her shoulder. “Please let me in.”

The horse stepped away, almost visibly repulsed.

Am I repulsive? Am I so wounded and messed up, that even a horse doesn’t want to be with me? I had not arrived at this retreat on steady footing. The weekend before I traveled to Santa Fe, our family had traveled to visit our younger son’s biological family, and that visit — while beautiful — had left me reeling. Who am I to our children? Who will I be? Will they love me? Will they be okay with what happened to them? Am I okay with what happened to me? How will I answer all of their questions? How can I assure that they know they are seen and loved and adored? Am I seen and loved and adored?

I didn’t know what had happened to Emma, but whatever it was, it couldn't have been good. I decided to try again. This time, I moved even slower, and tried to be more honest.

“I’m afraid,” I thought in my heart. “I’m afraid you won’t want to be with me.”

This time, Emma didn’t pull away. Eventually, Annette handed me the lead rope and Emma led me around as she ate hay off the ground. I wondered if she had been starved — she ate without stopping. I wondered if maybe she had been beaten or ridden too hard. Her upper back seemed to slope in a way that indicated heavy use. “What happened to you?” I asked. First the words were only in my head, but eventually, I began asking the question out loud. “What happened to you?”

What I’m about to tell you doesn’t make logical sense. But — here’s the thing — Emma answered. It wasn’t an audible voice. But somehow, a deep knowing hit in the center of my heart. Somehow, without words, this horse told me what had happened to her. She had had babies. Lots of them. And one by one, they had all been taken away. As we moved around the ranch, tears streamed down the sides of my face.

Later, I handed the lead back to Annette.

“She’s amazing,” I said. I didn’t know what else to say.

Unprompted, Annette said, “When she first got here, she wouldn’t let anyone take her by the lead. She was used for breeding. She would buck and rear, and wouldn’t let anyone near her.”

“I know,” I said. “She told me.”

This did not seem to surprise Annette in the least. The horse trainer just nodded.

Ask any woman what it took for her to become a mother and you will be stunned by the sheer ferocity it takes to bring a child into this world. The pain associated with childbirth is part of the curse chronicled in Genesis 3 — a central fracture in the brokenness of this fallen world. Whether by your own flesh and blood, or through the complicated experience of adoption, motherhood is replete with sorrow. It’s no wonder so many of us end up like Emma, rearing back, unwilling to let anyone come near.

Before I met Emma, I never would have considered what happened to me in that fertility clinic as a violation. Now I am convinced that is exactly what it was. I hesitate to say that because I know there are plenty of people out there who are grateful for fertility treatment for offering a path toward parenthood. But Emma and I shared something in common, something painful and true. Naming it as a violation has helped me grieve a piece of this that I never considered before.

I am so thankful for people like Joost and Emma and Annette. They are living proof that love and kindness can heal the deepest wounds — even the ones I think don’t need healing. Love cannot make these wounds disappear. But it can heal the part of my heart that wants to run when someone tries to get close.

And for that, I am grateful.

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