An Author’s Note: The Architecture of What I Couldn’t Say

A Departure

If you’ve followed my blog for any length of time, you know what I do here. I tell stories. Real ones. My name, my face, my mess—all of it laid out in black and white for anyone willing to read.

I’ve written about the missionary school that asked me to leave and how that rejection became my liberation. I’ve walked you through the wilderness years—the mortgage I had no business qualifying for, the surgery that nearly broke me, the men who taught me what manipulation looks like when it wears a charming smile. I’ve introduced you to Walle, the golden dog who survived unspeakable cruelty and chose to embrace me anyway, proving that damaged doesn’t mean disposable.

Blueprints in the Wilderness. The Still Small Voice. Walle. All testimony. All me.

But “What is a Mother Without Children?” was different.

I needed distance. I needed rooms.

The Question That Haunted Me

The question circled in my mind for months before I could write a single word. It surfaced while I was driving, while I was falling asleep, while I was sitting in church surrounded by women with babies on their hips. It demanded an answer I couldn’t give.

What is a mother without children?

The answers kept shifting.

For a while, I believed the answer was nothing. A woman who failed at the one thing her body was supposedly designed to do. I carried that answer like a stone in my chest, and it was heavy enough to drown in.

Then the answer became broken. Something went wrong. Something didn’t work. The doctors used words like “unexplained” and “unfortunately” and “keep trying,” and I translated all of it into a single diagnosis: you are defective in ways no one can repair.

But the answer that stayed the longest—the one that burned—was rage.

She is “RAGE”. That’s all she is. Deep down, when you strip away the polite smiles and the “I’m fine, really” and the gracious acceptance everyone expects—that’s all there is. Just rage. White-hot and justified and absolutely unwelcome in polite company.

I lived in that answer for a long time.

Until one day, I didn’t.

The shift wasn’t dramatic. There was no single moment of revelation, no voice from heaven, no burning bush. It was slower than that—more like dawn than lightning. I started to see all the ways I had already been mothering. Students I’d poured into. Friends’ children who climbed into my lap without invitation. Strangers who needed someone to listen. The fierce protectiveness I felt for anyone vulnerable, anyone hurting, anyone who reminded me that love doesn’t require biology to be legitimate.

I started to understand that my story wasn’t finished. That children might still come—through birth or adoption or fostering or some path I haven’t yet imagined. That God is in the business of miracles, and my job is to trust Him with the timeline.

My husband and I have been officially diagnosed as “medically infertile”. What that means for us is simple: if God gives us a child, it’s a miracle and we will praise Him. If He doesn’t, it’s still a miracle and we will praise Him. Either way, we trust.

And either way, I finally found my answer.

Why Allegory

But I couldn’t write that answer directly. Not at first.

I had spent so much of my blog telling hard stories where I was sometimes the villain, sometimes the naive girl who should have known better, sometimes just young and stumbling through a world I didn’t understand. I had named names—changed some for protection, kept others for truth. I had laid out my failures and my lessons and my slow, painful growth for anyone to witness.

This story was different. This grief belonged to me alone. I didn’t want it tangled up with other people’s actions or words. I didn’t want to explain medical histories or answer questions about treatments or defend my choices to strangers on the internet. I didn’t want this to become about anyone other than me.

So I built a museum instead.

The metaphor arrived almost fully formed—a building with rooms, each one holding a different piece of my emotional landscape. A space I could curate, organize, control. A way to give architecture to the chaos inside me, to make the invisible visible, to let readers walk through my grief without requiring them to carry my specific details.

Fiction became the truest way to tell my story.

The museum is me. The rooms are my emotions. The visitors are the people in my life who have entered my grief at various points, stayed for various lengths of time, witnessed various depths of what I carry.

The Architecture: A Reader’s Guide

Every detail in the museum was chosen deliberately. The way footsteps echo differently in each space. The scents that shift as you move deeper. The temperatures that tell you something has changed before your mind catches up. Nothing was accidental.

It took me a while to write these pieces because I needed every sensory element to carry meaning. If you’re going to walk through my grief, you deserve to understand what you’re experiencing.

The Foyer of Questions is where everyone begins—cathedral ceilings, marble floors worn smooth, the central question suspended in silver letters. I made this room feel like entering a sacred space because that’s what grief is to me. Sacred. The cool air and morning light create a hush that asks visitors to lower their voices, to approach with reverence. This is where I decide if someone is ready to go further, or if they’ll turn back before they’ve really begun.

The Tender Galleries hold what I call the “palatable grief”—soft carpet, golden lighting, the smell of lavender and old books. I designed this space to feel like a warm embrace because this is the version of my story that makes people comfortable. Photographs of students, cards from godchildren, evidence of love redirected. I put this room early in the tour because it’s what most people expect and many never look beyond it. It’s real, but it’s not the whole truth.

The Archive of Inherited Wisdom creaks like an old house settling because that’s what it holds—generations of knowledge that lives in my bones. The smell of beeswax and cedar, the temperature perfectly controlled like a mother’s touch. This room exists because I needed somewhere to honor all the things I know how to do that have no direct recipient. Checking fevers, singing lullabies, making scraped knees better. The skills didn’t disappear just because there’s no child to receive them. They’re preserved here, waiting to be useful whenever they’re needed.

The Hall of Melancholy is cooler, quieter, with slate floors and the scent of rain. I made it feel like approaching something sleeping because grief that old becomes a companion rather than an intruder. The cedar chest, the empty rocking chair, the pregnancy tests I couldn’t throw away—these aren’t morbid keepsakes. They’re evidence that hope existed, even when hope was disappointed. I refuse to pretend I never hoped.

The Memorial Garden exists outside the main structure—certain losses need open sky. I gave it all four seasons simultaneously; that’s how grief actually works. You can feel spring hope and winter endurance in the same breath. The fountain runs in circles; mourning doesn’t move in straight lines. This is where I go when I need to sit with pure loss without trying to transform it into something useful. Grief, at times, just needs to be witnessed, not fixed.

The Gallery of Acceptance is flooded with natural light—clarity feels that way, like someone finally opened the curtains. Clean scent, balanced temperature, room to breathe. I built this space to represent hard-won peace, the recognition that my life isn’t a consolation prize. But I placed it in the middle of the tour, not at the end. Acceptance isn’t the final destination. It’s just one room among many.

The Observatory required climbing to reach because expanded perspective demands effort. Thin air, brass telescopes, the feeling of height beneath your feet. I created this room to hold possibility—not replacement for what was lost, but genuine expansion into what might still be created. The telescopes point toward futures I’m still building: students whose lives might change, work that might outlast me, love that might ripple outward in ways I’ll never trace.

The Room of Rage has a heavy door and a warning sign because not everyone should enter. Red walls like arterial blood, black floors like mirrors, air that feels electric against your skin. The sharp crack of footsteps. The smell of copper and approaching storms. I built this room because I needed somewhere to keep the anger that has no acceptable outlet—the fury at platitudes, at pity, at the single fact that it just has not happened. I will never bear children. This room says what I’m not allowed to say in polite conversation: this isn’t fair, and I refuse to pretend it is.

The Workshop connects directly to the rage room—that’s how transformation works. You walk straight from fury into creation without stopping to sanitize the transition. Paint-splattered floors, the smell of clay and turpentine, works in progress everywhere. I made this space tactile and messy; becoming something new isn’t clean. “You’re allowed to touch everything here. You’re supposed to.”

The Gallery for Visitors wasn’t part of my original blueprint. I added it after I realized that even I needed refuge from my own intensity. Soft chairs, warm blankets, chamomile and cotton, the muffled quiet of thick rugs. Windows overlooking impossible gardens. This room exists because there are days I can’t be the curator—days when I just need to rest. I sleep here most nights, not because I’ve failed to move beyond it, but because rest is its own kind of holy.

The Force Gallery is the largest room, the final destination, mirrors reflecting infinitely in every direction. Brilliant light, ethereal temperature, the scent of something about to begin. I built this room to hold the version of myself I’m still becoming—not despite the loss, but shaped by it. The mirrors show potential rather than just reality because I needed to see that my story leads somewhere magnificent, even if I can’t fully picture it yet.

The Visitors

The people who move through the museum represent the people who have moved through my grief.

Many ask surface questions and leave when the answers get complicated. Others offer comfort that costs them nothing—platitudes about silver linings, assurances that everything happens for a reason—and never return when those easy words bounce off walls built to hold heavier things.

A few stay longer. They sit with me in the Memorial Garden or stand beside me in the Archive, recognizing their own loss in the artifacts I’ve preserved. These visitors don’t try to fix what they see. They just witness it, and their witnessing makes the weight more bearable.

Others have tried to enter rooms they weren’t ready for and fled when the intensity overwhelmed them. I don’t chase them. Facing certain truths—your own or anyone else’s—requires time that can’t be rushed.

And some—very few—have walked the entire museum, all the way to the mirrors at the end, and seen themselves reflected alongside me. Transformed. Expanded. More than the world told them they were allowed to be.

I kept these visitors unnamed and undescribed because this piece isn’t about them. I’ve spent enough of my blog explaining how other people shaped my journey. This story belongs to me.

The Three Key-Holders

In “Tending,” three figures appear who hold keys to every room in the museum. They weren’t characters I invented for narrative convenience. They represent something I couldn’t say directly in the original pieces—something I’m saying now.

Eli

The name Eli is Hebrew, meaning “My God,” “ascended,” “uplifted.” In Scripture, Eli was the high priest who raised the prophet Samuel.

In my allegory, Eli maintains the foundation. He checks for cracks before they become collapses. He showed up when I had nothing but sketches of impossible rooms and said, “Nothing’s impossible. It just requires the right foundation.”

Eli represents God the Father—the one who establishes what can hold weight, who builds structures capable of containing impossible things, who keeps checking the integrity of what He helped create. Foundations aren’t one-time work. They require ongoing attention. Eli embodies that ongoing faithfulness.

Sarayu

The name Sarayu comes from Sanskrit, meaning “wind” or “breath of wind.” In William Paul Young’s novel The Shack, Sarayu represents the Holy Spirit—shimmering, hard to look at directly, always in motion, tending gardens and helping chaos grow toward purpose.

I chose that name deliberately. (I also love that movie!)

In my allegory, Sarayu tends the garden—but she also tends me. She reminds me to eat when I’ve forgotten. She finds me when I’m stuck in rooms I can’t leave on my own. She doesn’t drag me out by force; she sits with me until movement becomes possible again. She whispers that breath moves, and so can I.

Sarayu represents the Holy Spirit—the breath of God, the comforter, the one who moves what has gone still and refuses to let things die that are meant to live.

Jesse

The name Jesse is Hebrew, meaning “God exists” or “gift.” In Scripture, Jesse was a shepherd in Bethlehem, father of King David, ancestor in the lineage leading to Christ. Isaiah prophesied that the Messiah would come from the “root of Jesse.”

In my allegory, Jesse sits with the broken. He appears when visitors freeze in doorways or emerge from the Room of Rage unable to speak. He doesn’t offer solutions or explanations. He just stays—steady, unhurried, present.

Jesse carries scars of his own. Whatever broke him open also broke him toward others. His wounds became his qualifications.

Jesse represents Jesus Christ—the one who sits with us in suffering, who doesn’t rush to fix or explain, who knows what it means to carry unbearable weight because He carried it Himself.

Together

Three key-holders. The Father who builds. The Spirit who tends. The Son who stays.

They are the only ones with access to every room. They see all of me—what I display for visitors and what I keep locked. They’ve witnessed my worst nights in the Room of Rage and my quietest mornings in the Refuge.

The truth I was trying to say in “Tending” is this: I didn’t build the museum alone. I can’t maintain it alone. I cannot survive my own grief without Them.

Where I Am Now

I sleep most nights in the Gallery for Visitors—the refuge I added when I realized even curators need rest.

There are still nights I end up in the Room of Rage. Mornings I can’t open the doors because I’m not safe to guide anyone through—not safe for them, not safe for myself. On those days, the museum stays closed, and the three key-holders tend what I cannot.

The building isn’t finished. There are rooms I haven’t constructed yet because I haven’t lived what they would hold. I don’t know what comes after the Force Gallery. Maybe peace. Maybe purpose. Maybe just the ordinary miracle of waking up each day in a body that still carries loss

I’m still building.

Why I Wrote This

I wrote “What is a Mother Without Children?” because the question haunted me and I couldn’t answer it directly.

I wrote “Tending” because the first piece made it look like I navigated this alone, and that wasn’t honest.

I wrote this—an author’s note—because you deserved to know what you were walking through. Every scent and sound and temperature shift was chosen for a reason. The names mean something. The rooms are real, even if the building is metaphor.

Certain stories need architecture before they can be spoken plainly. Certain griefs require rooms.

Now you know what it means.

And maybe, if you’ve constructed your own invisible museum—if you’ve stood in your own space of unanswerable questions, spent nights in your own room of justified fury, built your own refuge out of necessity—you recognize these walls.

Maybe you’re still building too.

The museum opens at dawn. It closes at dusk. And every single day, someone is there to help me tend it.