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Normally, I really enjoy looking through my TimeHop app. (Or On This Day on Facebook, whatever floats your boat.) It’s fun to see the pictures and videos of my littles when they were smaller. (Four-year-old Libbie was a hoot, y’all.) I get a kick out of seeing what on earth I said on Facebook before I had kids. My current pregnancy and my pregnancy with Libbie have had due dates just a few days apart, so it’s funny to see what I posted about baby #1 versus baby #4.
This time of year, though, it gets hard to look at the posts. I don’t remember it so vividly last year; maybe I was less of an emotional mess and able to handle it a little better. But being 37 weeks pregnant, today I just felt myself sinking into the seven-years-ago struggle.
You see, seven years ago is when I was living alone in Nashville with Libbie. From that August until January, I did the single-mom thing, worked full-time, tried to keep our little condo spotless for potential buyers. Seven years ago today my friend Meredith helped me stage my house. And I was so hopeful. It looked so incredible.
Seven-years-ago Jessie didn’t know it would be many months of emotional turmoil and money issues and we would finally foreclose on the house, making it feel senseless that I stayed there all those months by myself. Seeing the hope expressed in my own words via TimeHop … well, it’s just hard. It still stinks. Years later.
I can’t ever regret the lessons we learned during that time. I would never regret having a second baby during one of the hardest years of our marriage, even knowing the depression I went through after he was born. God provided a way for us through moving us onto campus exactly at the right time.
It still doesn’t make it not hard or not sad.
And that can be rough.