There are two things that set me apart from the vast majority of my friends.

1. I’m overweight.

I’d say more than 80% of my girlfriends (doesn’t matter what city we’re talking, or country, or cultural background, or economic status, the figure remains solid… no pun intended) are not overweight — though more than a few of them struggle with eating disorders like anorexia and bulimia, or exercise addiction (yes, that’s something you can have. And before you go, “I wish I had that!”, you don’t. Being addicted to anything is not fun.)

I think my crowd is off the North American average… but I often moonlight as a statistical anomaly.

Another percentage have lost weight in a more gradual way to get to where they’re at now — anywhere from 20 to 80 lbs.

But regardless of their current weight or their history with different disorders or their level of fitness, I’d say nearly 90% of my girlfriends practice some manner of self-loathing in response to their bodies. Some do it only on certain days, and some make self-deprecating comments daily. Some go between self-loathing and self-promoting extremes. But most of them do it at least sometimes, in whatever form.

So, to break it down: most of my friends are not overweight, or are only mildly overweight. Regardless, most are remarkably critical of themselves — and sometimes of others who struggle with weight, for various reasons. I can’t decide if it’s fantastic or awkward that they don’t edit any of this when I’m around, but I’ll go with fantastic, because I want them to be free to be honest about their feelings (unless they’re trying to hurt someone else’s.)

2. I’m unable to have children biologically.

Whatever the birthing trend is right now (women having children later in life, women giving birth to babies at home, women turning to infertility specialists), struggling with pregnancy doesn’t seem to be a prevalent thing in my circle. Granted, this isn’t something people discuss openly, but when someone adamantly states they don’t want children (I’ll take you at your word…), or has a ton of them, I tend to assume all is well — and that’s a LOT of my girlfriends.

The few ladies I know who’ve turned to specialists usually found success in their efforts (and investment.) Even the girls who have adopted instead of running the fertility gauntlet have ended up pregnant eventually, often as a total surprise.

My first “aunthood” began when I was 19, and one of my friends (at the same age) had her first baby. There hasn’t been a period since then that at least one of my girlfriends, my female relatives, my closer female acquaintances, or my co-workers wasn’t pregnant. At one point, there were 12. 18 years later, the run continues.

These two things about me, within the construct of who I know, can make life pretty awkward on occasion.

Because I am overweight, there are assumptions made about how I eat, about the amount of exercise I get, and my overall well-being as a human. I have an autoimmune disorder that creates major hormonal imbalances in my system, which led to a rapid weight gain in my late teens / early twenties. I didn’t know about the disorder until I was 31, so I spent years getting gym memberships and starting (and maintaining, without results) fitness programs, and trying different diets and cleanses with the goal of kicking my hips to the curb. None of them worked. Someone I loved even bought me a scale once.

I guess everyone wanted it to happen.

When I got a major staph infection — a charmer of an ailment that would have taken my leg out at the knee, had I not gotten treatment pronto — I couldn’t keep anything down because my stomach lining was destroyed by necessary antibiotics. I lost a significant amount of weight in the span of just a few weeks. That was the only time I was successful at getting thinner, and even then… when I healed, back the weight came.

No matter what I weigh, my friends marvel fairly often at how my face “looks thin”, even when the rest of me is decidedly not, or at how small my bones seem to be… underneath. Because it does, sometimes… and they are.

When I finally heard from the doctor that my insides were radically out of whack and that I was in the throes of exceptionally early menopause, it was a bit of a relief at the same time it was shocking: now I knew what was wrong with me… but I also knew what was wrong with me. And let’s not forget that the whole “hormonal issue” is a cliche excuse for weight problems — enough of a cliche that most people figure you’re just lazy, not ill.

Great.

My doctor told me as gently as possible that weight loss would be exceptionally difficult for me, probably always. She suggested I try hormone replacement as a means of regulating how my body behaved (not to mention reducing my cancer and diabetes risk, both of which are high.) Time would tell if that regulation might make dropping pounds any easier.

After a year of random nausea, stomach pain, bizarre headaches, hot flashes, and emotions that felt about as abrupt and unnecessary to me as a poke in the eye, I couldn’t do it anymore. I wasn’t any better at losing, and I didn’t feel like “myself.”

Not to mention that the thing I really wanted treatment to do — make me able to have children — wasn’t something any treatment could do.

Which is the other way life is awkward.

I have a fantastic fiance who has never made me feel terrible about what I’m not capable of, which was my biggest fear when I found out — that the person I would grow to love most wouldn’t be able to deal with that reality. I hadn’t met him yet, but when I did, it wasn’t a problem. In that way — among others — I am supremely blessed. He has a wonderful son and stepson I’ve gotten to know and love, too. My “insta-family”, as I like to call them, has healed a lot of what hurt when I found out I was infertile. I’m not scared of being a wicked stepmother… except in the Boston sense.

But after getting engaged earlier this year, I can’t count how many times people have asked me about when I was going to “have a little one of my own” or “get knocked up” or “start your (my) own family.” There were even lighthearted jabs about how “you’re not getting any younger!”

Yeah.

I understand that’s the natural progression. I do. And I don’t resent anyone for asking, even when it hurts. But for someone who has always had a loving way with kids and a deep desire to have children of my own, it always prods a little more than it should.

Anyone who does know I can’t have kids asks about adoption, which seems like the next logical progression, I guess. Except that I’m not a citizen here and won’t be for a long time, which makes that impossible… in addition to other factors that aren’t really anyone’s business but ours. Besides — there’s a perfectly amazing almost-13-year-old who needs a college fund more than I need “a baby of my own.”

But. It comes up.

Both of these things do.

A lot.

As I said, I don’t resent myself or my girlfriends for struggling with weight or self-image. In this society, it’s practically a given that you’ll end up thinking through those things with some degree of frustration.

And I don’t resent anyone for fussing about infertility, pregnancy, and babies — again, our society is obsessed with “baby bumps” and the act of creating a small person who shares your genes… or at the very least, your last name.

What I do resent is when people take their internal neuroses and visit them on everyone else with an extra cup of fury, either as a means of making themselves feel better… or making everyone else suffer in tandem. When people make it not okay to be anything short of perfect, or to deviate from the “standard”. When you are viewed as less because you choose a slightly different path — or it gets chosen for you.

Life is hard enough, but for some reason, we want to make it harder.

And so we end up…

… laughing at celebrity cellulite or double chins, as though being paid a lot of money or being famous means you have to be (or even can be) perfect. The celebrities might never know or care that you judged them, of course, but the girlfriend next to you on the sofa does, and she’s poking at her thigh in her yoga pants.

… mocking the way other women look in their clothes, or how their clothes fit, as though they dress the way they do as a personal affront to your sensibilities. It’s been said that most women have clothing in at least 3 sizes in their closets, but not everyone can afford to do that… or deal with it emotionally.

… trashing people according to what you assume to be true about their eating habits or their health, as though everyone with a weight problem breathes McDonald’s french fries and Mountain Dew, or sits on the sofa watching TV all day. I’m sure some people do, of course, fat or thin. I’m even more sure I’m not one of them.

… using how you eat or exercise as a more subtle criticism of what other people aren’t doing, instead of just owning and enjoying your life and effort. I have one friend who likes to call her husband and her daughter “lazy fat asses” (neither one is, by any standard) when she passes them on the way to work out… but then follows up with “just kidding!” as she jogs out the door. Both have said it hurts. She still does it.

I have another friend who likes to say, “must be nice!” when people order something other than a salad when they’re out for dinner with her. In fact, she always says it. I don’t even think she knows she does it, but she does.

… hassling women who are getting older about their “ticking clock.” If it is ticking, why make a big deal about it? If it isn’t, why make a big deal about it?

… hassling people who can’t have kids about how they should try this treatment or that treatment to make it happen, because they’ll never be whole without a baby of their own. Or, conversely, hassling them when they do try, so they’re abundantly aware that you won’t stop bugging them until there’s a zygote somewhere.

… hassling people who don’t choose to have kids about how they must not be loving or caring people, what with not wanting to have a baby. “You’ll change your mind.” “You’re selfish.” “You’ll regret it.” “You’ll be alone when you’re old.”

What if we all assumed that there are bigger stories beyond what we see (without needing to run headlong into finding them out)?

If we could give one another a little more grace than judgment, it would be easier for us to be different. For you to be different. For me to be different.

Because we all are. There is no linear path. There’s what life hands you, and there’s what you do with it.

So.

I’m going to do my damndest not to make my girlfriends feel bad about the things they struggle with or the things they’re thrilled about, because I know their pains and joys are as real and true to them as mine are to me. I will hope for the same in return.

If you look in the mirror at size nothing and hate what you see, I’m not going to be the one to say, “Well, try being ME, sister.” Because you’re already dealing with being you. I will help you any way I can. And maybe you can give me the benefit of the doubt: that I am doing my best to get to where I need to be.

If you want to run baby names past me daily, I’ll look up meanings on the internet, and gush genuinely when you find the thing that fits your munchkin perfectly. Because my disappointment with my own fertility doesn’t — and shouldn’t — negate your excitement. And I will be a great auntie to that baby. In return, you can realize and embrace that there are more types of families out there than the ones where everyone has the same nose — including mine.

There are two things that set me apart from the vast majority of my friends. Or I used to think so, and it made me feel badly.

Now I know we’re all special. We all have our own scars, our own hopes, and our own plans, as particular to us as our fingerprints, whatever others might assume to be true. What I thought was happening around me was only the shallow water in the pool.

There are a million quiet stories being written every day.

So what’s yours?

I’m not sure I was always having fun, but time flew anyway.

In the last few months, I’ve changed my title twice at work, added new responsibilities to my job, worked for more than a handful of freelance clients (with all that “spare time” I have), searched for (and found!) a new apartment for our wee family (which is not so wee anymore, now that both boys have long monkey arms and tend to take up as much space as they can without exerting themselves) in a new neighborhood, searched for movers who could handle our (not much) stuff on an odd day of the week, figured out our two-phase wedding plan (and got our parents on board, because, well, they need to come)…

…and ultimately, tried to make all of these things co-exist without going off the deep end.

(I think I dangled my feet off the deep end a few times, actually. I just didn’t dive in.)

When I lie in bed at night, however exhausted I might be, I think through all the details and the to-dos and the people I have to contact about all the plates that are spinning in my personal and work life, and my head and my heart start to pound. I’ve never been particularly good at sleeping, but now I know it’s not the same old insomnia — nope, my brain is just too full.

But.

I’m thankful for all of it. Deeply thankful.

I want the man, the marriage, the family, the home, the job, and everything else that comes with them, whether or not I have a thousand tiny coronaries in a day trying to keep it all together. Sure, I accelerated into things that most people like to spread across a decade, but hey… I like a challenge.

Better crazy than bored.

Better overwhelmed than underused.

Better going forward than getting stuck.

Better loved than… anything.

Better that time should fly than pass me by.

In two days, it will be exactly five years since I sat in a doctor’s office, and heard (straightforwardly and unequivocally) that my body was incapable of carrying children.

It was devastating.

I’d unswervingly wished to be a mother for as long as I could remember. I’d been caring for children practically since I was one. It was a given, really, that I’d have some of my own.

Until it wasn’t. And though yes, I could adopt, I was still gut-punched by the news.

I didn’t want to tell my parents, because I knew they’d seen the same path for me that I had. I didn’t want to tell my friends, because I was horrified by the thought they might feel awkward sharing the news of their families with me, lest they cause me further heartbreak. Even if that would be exactly the case, at times. And I sure didn’t want to tell whatever man I’d end up with, because who knew if that was a dealbreaker?

Five years is both a blink and an eternity, depending on what happens in that time.

In the last five years, I’ve moved five times, changed jobs three times, and fallen in love once.

That last experience has changed my life more so than any other single thing that came before it, including that moment in the doctor’s office.

And in so many ways, it has healed that moment for me, since I now have a soon-to-be-stepson who explodes into my home each week with crazy stories and gangly near-teenage limbs and a goofy laugh reminiscent of his father’s. When he’s there, the whole place changes. And it’s fantastic.

Don’t get me wrong — his mother is very much his mother, to be sure. He looks like her, he adores her, and he is confident in her love every day of his life. We made sure he bought her flowers yesterday because she deserves them; we see evidence of her nurturing in his happy, sweet, confident spirit. She has done the role proud.

So where do I come in?

Well, that’s something we’ll figure out over time, but I have it on good authority that I’m welcome in his family. I laugh at his jokes, I listen when he talks, I cook things he likes, and I make his dad happy — and if there’s anything else he needs as he grows older, I’ll do my best to make it happen. He doesn’t stand a chance of escaping unloved.

It’s not a Hallmark thing. It’s just what is, and what should be.

That said, some part of me still wonders what life would have been like if my body was different, and I’d followed the same path as so many of my friends: a world of pregnancies and elastic waistbands and sonograms and newborns and toddlers and hand-me-downs and entire houses full of people who look and act similar in both striking and subtle ways.

I do get faint twinges of jealousy now and then, as when I see that hundreds of my Facebook friends have a picture of some small person as their profile photo, or when another birth announcement arrives in my inbox, or when someone posts another 85 photos of their growing belly or of tiny toes or of a gap-toothed brood in matching shirts.

I wonder what that would be like to be there from the very beginning, to earn a lifetime membership in a club of overtired, harried, yet content people, forever bonded by this thing they’ve done… even if they started on that path because of a happy accident.

I mean, I know parenting is hard — I don’t need to be one to know that. It LOOKS hard. But the vast majority of people I know don’t wish they’d done anything else.

But in the moments I find myself getting a bit glassy-eyed or overly sentimental or self-pitying about it all, I have to remember that what I’m envying is not so much the result of functioning biology or the euphoria of certain events or some sort of greeting-card magic, but rather the evidence of good choices… or a long series of good choices.

I’m envying the after-effects of something done well. Something that took hard work, dedication, and commitment. Something not easy, but worthwhile. The result… not the whole story.

But sometimes the effort is different, so the result is markedly different.

While our culture is obsessed with the wonder and mystery of fertility and pregnancy, there are millions of people for whom it couldn’t be less amazing.

These people have children they didn’t intend to have, or don’t want anymore, or can’t take care of, or don’t have the resources or wherewithal or emotional or psychological capacity to support anyone else… let alone themselves. These people bring children into the world who they eventually abandon, because they cannot — or will not — make the choice to cherish them. Sometimes out of desperation, sometimes out of fear, sometimes out of ignorance, sometimes out of an evil I don’t intend to understand.

And then there are the children who aren’t abandoned, but who spend their young lives in pain because they have a parent determined to punish them for just being there… a choice they didn’t make, but one they’ll pay for until they’re old enough to walk away.

And then some.

Some of those kids find a second or a third or a fourth set of people who do right by them, and end up in some of those glowing Facebook photos.

But many don’t.

I don’t envy anyone in those families, parent or child — except, perhaps, for the rescuers I just mentioned, who step in when no one else will. And I don’t know if I’d say I envy them so much as that I’m in awe of them, because while I can say now that I believe I could love any child placed in my path, I haven’t had that conviction challenged — and challenged repeatedly.

Determinedly.

Fiercely.

But, funny thing, my in-laws have. They chose to love in a decidedly un-Hallmark situation.

I live with the happy evidence of their good choices every single day, in the person of my future husband. So does my future stepson. We have walking, talking evidence that they made the right call.

And he chose something different for his life, too, something not defined by the difficult experiences he had growing up, but by the second chance he was given — which is why his son is so happy.

So what’s the point of all this?

My envy gives way to thankfulness more and more each year. My understanding of what love is grows more and more each year. My desire to be like everyone else, and look like everyone else, and have a life that everyone else can understand wanes as I grow old enough to understand that life just isn’t that simple — for them, or for me.

I’m not going to need to buy maternity clothes. But I am going to have to make the choice to love a million times over, even when it’s not fun or convenient.

That’s the thing I really always wanted. That’s the thing I was really born to do. And I’m finally far enough down the road to see it.

My experience as a mother will be too long and complicated a story for any Hallmark card. Already is.

But I’ll gladly take the rest of the year, even if I don’t quite fit in to the first Sunday in May.