The Pit of Despair, Revisited

And a polarizing book + wine pairing

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Wednesday was a no good, very bad day. But, it was weirdly monumental in that something in me shifted. In a good way.

Maybe it started when I woke up. Maybe during my morning coffee. But the thought of the upcoming baby shower started eating away at me—bite by bite—until I felt like emotional Swiss cheese.

A grayness just fell over me, curling around me like a blanket as if it was keeping me safe and warm. But really, it was just preventing all the horrible feelings from escaping.

I couldn’t focus on work. I couldn’t text anyone back. I couldn’t even decide what to eat, like the weight of choosing between leftovers and toast was suddenly too much. I wasn’t crying, exactly, but my body had that weird, post-tears ache—like it knew something was coming.

I hate baby showers. They are an in the face reminder of what I can’t have. A celebration of it. Pregnancy and ultrasounds have always been my biggest triggers. These showers, for me, are forced smiles and inappropriate questions.

I don’t begrudge anyone else their joy. That’s the most annoying part of it—I’m genuinely happy for the people I love. But baby showers ask me to sit in a room filled with blue cupcakes and ultrasound photos and pretend I don’t feel like I’m breaking apart. It’s not that I don’t want to show up. It’s that I show up and then spend a week trying to duct tape myself back together.

I was hoping beyond hope, “optimistic to the point of foolishness” as Dumbledore would say, that we would have received good news about our surrogacy journey. Eight months with one agency. Three with a surrogacy broker (hello, late-stage capitalism—everything can be commercialized and commodified).

But even with all that effort, all that waiting, we have nothing to show for it yet. Just silence. Just more not-yet.

That’s the part people don’t tell you about long waits. That they don’t just ask for your patience—they demand pieces of you. Your hope, your energy, your ability to plan or dream or imagine without caveats. Living in the parentheses is exhausting.

And I was stuck in the infamous Pit of Despair.

“The Pit of Despair! Don’t even think about trying to escape. The chains are far too thick.” - The Princess Bride (mandatory viewing)

I tried everything to crawl out of the hole. I took myself on a stupid walk for my stupid mental health. I meditated. I napped. I sat outside in the beautiful spring sun with my dogs, doom scrolling.

Nothing worked until I stumbled on a note by

Kim Foster

Kim about her beautiful essay On Getting Old. It read something like: “I’m determined to make the last third of my life the best.”

And that one line—those 12 or so words—rewired something in me.¹

And I thought—fuck.

Not because I disagreed, but because something about that line hit a nerve. It rattled me. I didn’t want to look back on this era of my life—my middle third—and realize I was sad all the time. I didn’t want to think of this as the waiting room before the “real” joy begins. Because truthfully, I’m in the thick of it now: I’m 35. I’m creative. I’m building a business and a community. I’m loved deeply. I am so lucky—and I’d be wasting that luck if I wished it looked any different.

Reading that note was like sitting in the eye doctor’s chair while they flip through the lenses. Everything blurry and unclear, until—click—suddenly, the entire world came into crystal clear focus.

Why have I been mourning what I don’t have? Why am I filling these precious years with preoccupation and longing? Why not fill them with joy, gratitude, wonder—love?

If I spend this time obsessing over when things will happen, I’ll rob myself of the now. And this now is good. So good. The kind of good I know I’ll ache for later if I don’t pay attention to it.

I’ve always rolled my eyes at people who talked like their best years were behind them. It felt like they’d stopped dreaming. Me? I’ve always been a future girly. The future is where all my good stuff lives. My dreams realized. My best self waiting.

I’ve always been the kind of person who gets high on potential. New notebooks. Fresh planners. Dream boards. If I could just fast-forward to the part where the house is built, the book is published, the baby is here—then I could finally breathe. But I’ve been living like that for years. And somewhere along the way, I forgot that life doesn’t happen in the arrival. It happens in the unfolding. (I did actually write about that in Legacy vs. Living, so this is me giving myself yet another reminder!).

I used to think looking ahead meant I was striving, growing. Maybe I didn’t think about it at all. But now I know—living in the future means missing the miracle of the present. And I’m done missing it.

I don't want to regret these years. I don't want to look back and remember sadness when there’s so much brightness right here. I want to live these days as fully as I can. Expand my brain. Learn something new. Create. Imagine. Be grateful.

The future can still be beautiful. But I’m no longer putting my joy on layaway.

This is not purgatory.

This is my life.
This is my middle third.
And it’s already the best part.

So Sunday evening, after the shower, we’ll light a fire. We’ll pour a glass of wine. We’ll pick out a stupid movie we’ve seen a dozen times before. I’ll let the dogs climb all over me. And I’ll remind myself—this is it. This is the life I don’t want to miss.

Book and wine pairing

Pour yourself a sake—not a wine, but let’s call it wine adjacent—and buckle up for the wild ride that is Hunchback by Saou Ichikawa, translated from Japanese by Polly Barton (longlisted for International Booker Prize). Hell, I might pour myself one now, too. This book—and, honestly, this week—was a lot to grapple with.

After finishing this book, I immediately turned back a few pages to reread, the wheels of my mind unable to find traction on anything other than: WTF? It’s masterfully written, and yet I closed the final page feeling unmoored. Disoriented.

Hunchback is irreverent, unflinching, and deeply destabilizing. Ichikawa immerses you in the mind of a severely disabled woman—her thoughts, her hungers, her rage, her exhaustion—and doesn’t let you look away. It’s one of the first times I’ve confronted the inner world of someone living with a congenital muscle disorder so directly and all the complexities of thought and feeling that accompany that. I’m ashamed to admit that I rarely reflected or sat with the difficulty that comes with a disability like a congenital muscle disorder other than a passing that’d be a pain in the ass.

Which made this book both uncomfortable and necessary.

There is a line in the book (I’m tempted to share here but I fear it gives too much away) that initially sent me reeling in its cruelty and violence… and shockingly dismissive of life. I sat with it for a while, unsure how to feel. And then I realized: I’ve been guilty of several uncharitable thoughts when my bitterness of infertility gets the better of me.

That realization cracked something open in me. It’s easy to judge what we don’t understand. Harder to admit when we’ve done the same in our own quiet ways.

I am absolutely sure that this line is a large reason this book has been met with such a polarising response. Well, that and the weird sex and all the weird talk about sex.

If someone has read this, please—please—message me. I need to talk about the ending.

The only reasonable drink to pair with Hunchback is something just as strong and unfiltered. Something like Shichi Hon Yari Nigori. It’s cloudy, a little wild, and—according to the distributor—has a “meaty texture and robust mouthfeel.”

If you’ve read the book, this description will make an almost unsettling amount of sense.

Writing Update

Is there an update? IDK. We’re in waiting mode. But, as per above, I’m going to embrace it and have fun with it and spend a little too much time reimagining my fantasy manuscript.

What I’ve been enjoying recently

There Are Rivers in the Sky by Elif Shafak - Phenomenal read but a little slow going for me. Beautifully written. The ending really elevated this book for me… I was hovering around 3 stars prior because I thought it was a little long. But I take it back! Bravo.

Hunchback by Saou Ichikawa - need I say more?

100 Poems to Break Your Heart by Edward Hirsch - You know me, I love melodrama. I’ve been trying to read more and learn more from poetry. This is a gorgeous compilation that I’ve been annotating the hell out of. Hirsch’s breakdown of the poems is especially touching (and helpful for noobs like me).

Disappearing Act by Jiordan Castle - I honestly can’t say I’m loving it, but I’m intrigued enough to continue. A book of poems (look at me go!)

Broken Country by Clare Leslie Hall - I’m roughly 30 pages in and already obsessed.

Who Will Run the Frog Hospital by Lorrie Moore - I can’t remember where I found this one… a list? a Bookstagram post? Does it matter? It sounds awesome. Also, loving these short reads.

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Please consider clicking the little heart on this essay—your engagement helps more than you think! I’d love to hear from you if this essay made you ~feel~ something, have read a book I recommended, or think I’m wildly off about my wine pairings.

xx,
bb

1. sorry Kim if I butchered your words!!! I couldn’t find your note :(