With the arrival of March came appendicitis. Even though this ailment has unknown causes and can happen to anyone, it somehow felt like the universe was out to get me personally. Though I was able to hobble my way over to the emergency room across the lake and get a quick diagnosis and same-day surgery, I felt shoved off the pleasant and stable treadmill of my life. A false sense of being “derailed.”

Because, what rail? What track? Life is nonlinear and not a competition.

The first two weeks of post-op recovery were f*cking hard. The gash below my belly button felt as much like a stab wound as a surgical one. Life had stabbed me in the gut. Moving from standing to sitting and vice versa was painstaking. Shifting position in bed evoked winces, even with the help of as many types of painkillers, natural and synthetic, that I could get my hands on.

Two weeks after the surgery, I was grateful to have the strength to welcome four people to a yoga retreat: two men and two women who I didn’t know when they arrived and who would become friends within the span of a week, as often (when we’re lucky) happens on retreat. I’ve been leading small group retreats in Guatemala, one to several times per year, since circa 2010. It’s definitely one of my most favorite things to do. And although I didn’t share this tidbit with the retreat attendees, I was 99 percent convinced that my husband and I had just conceived a son.

Why? I had received a lightning bolt intuition on a Friday evening that a little boy soul wanted to come through me and to join our family. This premonition was beyond odd, seeing as I had felt content with our nuclear family (myself, my husband and our now 11-year-old daughter)—at least for the four years since I’d suffered two miscarriages within a span of eight months, the last time we “tried.”

Nonetheless, the intuition was so overpowering that I went across the lake to my ob-gyn the next day and had her remove my copper IUD. That same afternoon, four nanas (Mayan spiritual guides and midwives) from Santa Lucia came to my house and led a fire ceremony. One of them sensed a baby in the field. And a swift and pleasant conception occurred at dawn the next morning.

I was so sure of this feeling that I shared this news, gradually, with a handful of trusted friends. Most of them were elated for me. I received all kinds of signs and signals that what I believed to be true was reality. I downloaded a baby tracker app and started taking prenatal vitamins and reading a Deepak Chopra book about pregnancy and birth. I felt symptoms and experienced unusual phenomena in my body that I attributed to the new human seedling in my womb. All signs pointed to yes.

The week after the aforementioned yoga retreat, I treated myself to going on a retreat, as a student this time, a move that had been 100 percent inspired by my post-appendectomy healing process and a desire for enhanced self-care. The retreat theme was “breath is life” and the venue was Villa Sumaya, a dreamy lakefront retreat center where I’ve worked (part-time/on-and-off) for the past nine years.

The teacher was Laurie Ellis-Young, a vibrant and fabulous woman and author of an award-winning book also called Breath Is Life. Our group had seven international women of multiple generations: three in their early 30s, three in their late 60s, and me. I shared my miracle pregnancy story in our circle one morning. At the moment I finished the tale, two songbirds flew through the window into the yoga temple and spiraled around the thatched roof for a solid minute as we all gaped at them in awe and wonder. It felt like another sure sign.

Of course, I was careful not to mention this nutty news to my parents or any friends who had known me back in Austin 19 years ago when I had a rainbow-technicolor manic episode that culminated in my involuntary commitment to the psych ward for 10 days in April 2005. (Back then, I’d had a delusion that I was pregnant with the second coming of Christ, which I don’t remember, thanks to all that flashing brain chemistry popping and crackling in my mind, but one of my friends has reminded me of it.)

Nonetheless, I was blissfully convinced I was pregnant and would deliver a baby boy in early December. Until my period came, several days late, and the illusion came crashing down. With the flow of blood, disappointment followed. I was teaching yet another yoga class (at a one-on-one retreat, the following week, with a lovely young Australian woman), so I repressed my sadness and went on with the show.

Early the next morning, I let the tears come as I hugged my husband in bed. I felt bitter disillusionment, not only of the fact of non-pregnancy but also that my mind, body, heart, and gut were able to play such tricks on me and persuade me to buy so fully this false premise of pregnancy. At the same time, I’m almost 44, I have type 2 diabetes, and being a mother, I know how all-consuming pregnancy and having a child is for the first several years of their precious life.

So I was blue yet accepting. Disillusioned yet grasping the truth of reality.

Shortly thereafter, I became ill yet again, this time with what felt like gastritis. Instead of getting better, the situation devolved to the point where I was throwing up any food or drink I tried to consume. So, I again decided to go to urgent care. Again, it was a Sunday (my appendix adventure had taken place on the same sacred day of the week, six weeks prior). I was hooked up to an IV and my veins were promptly filled with fluid and medicine. My blood and urine were tested.

I had a raging urinary tract infection, it turned out, and my blood sugar level had skyrocketed. I was perplexed, as I’d been limiting my carb intake and had cut added sweeteners from my diet since my diabetes diagnosis in March 2023. In fact, I’ve lost about 25 pounds since then, through dietary changes, exercise, and intermittent fasting. I’m aiming to lose another 20.

For the second time in two months, I had to cancel a planned family vacation to the Pacific coast of Guatemala. Instead of basking at the beach, I was wallowing at home in bed and on yet more antibiotics, gradually recovering from this latest blow to my delicate illusion of health and well-being. It sure got me down. Depression enveloped me like a ratty gray robe and I wallowed in self-pity. I quit doing my dear breathing practices, quit walking, quit yoga-ing.

And the hits keep coming! Right after finishing the week of antibiotics for the UTI, I started to feel telltale signs of having parasites, something I’ve become accustomed to over the years of living in Latin America. Rather than ingest yet more antibiotics, I have opted for the herbal remedies this time. I got tinctures, capsules, and teas from a nearby apothecary: black walnut hull, wormwood, neem, clove, and so on. It’s bitter medicine that requires an entire month of thrice-daily dosage that makes my face pucker up and elicits a moan of disgust. But it’s working, and it’s natural. Thanks, Mother Nature.

On the other hand, the herbal medicines themselves require me to drink more water to stay hydrated. Which I wasn’t really doing sufficiently at first, and so now I’m becoming an expert on natural remedies for gas, constipation, and elimination (such as yoga poses and sequences, supplements and powders, breathing practices, and a saltwater colon cleanse to get things moving).

“Shankhaprakshalana purifies the body. By practicing with care, one gets a luminous or shining body.” ~ Gheranda Samhita

Now it is May. We’ll depart soon for a two-month visit to the United States. At the end of the month, I’ll turn 44. I am not pregnant, and with my current blood glucose level, becoming so would be too risky for myself and the baby, especially during the first trimester. I accept the notion that maybe something else is wanting to be born through me—not a literal human child but some other type of writing project, retreat inspiration, or another yet-to-be-determined creation.

I am doubling down on my healthy, low carb, no-sugar diet and longer stints of intermittent fasting. I admit that I harbor the flicker of a hope that we can eventually conceive and welcome one more member into our little family. I am strong, and I am still of childbearing age, albeit at the tail end of it.

Maybe. Or maybe not. The practice is to balance letting go and making effort—and to watch Life unfold as it will through the lenses of love, joy, and gratitude.

“Until the time when your light returns back to the universe, you carry the brightness of the stars inside of you.” ~ Kana Shimizu

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