In early 2010 I met Kelly. Her freckly face and bursting laugh made me like her right away. We started hanging out, meeting up for walks where we’d sort of exercise, but mostly talk. The reasons for these walks are prioritized and executed accordingly. 1. Therapy 2. Exercise. If there came a point during the said meet-up where one participant needed to cry, flail her arms so wildly it slowed the pace or stop and vent on a nearby bench, it had been a deemed a successful walk. So, Kelly and I would meet and walk and wail and belly laugh and then get in our cars, go our separate ways until the next time. I’d get home, walk in the door and exclaim, “I REALLY LIKE KELLY!” Every. Time.

As the years went on, our topics turned to one main topic: having a baby. We shared similar struggles. And as our friends got knocked up, one after the next, like a bunch of rowdy 16 year olds, we grew frustrated and heart-broken. We felt like outcasts. But at least we had each other.

The other day we were getting pedicures and the girl digging the crud out of my big toe asked Kelly and I if we were related, sisters even. We LOL’d something fierce. We’re pretty much opposites. She’s tall and blonde, with blue eyes and a gazillion freckles. I’m much darker, than she is, skin, eyes, hair, you name it, and I’m certainly not tall. Kelly is much more reserved with her emotions. If you haven’t been able to tell quite yet, SPOILER ALERT! I’m a big, fat feeler and a horrible hider of emotions. So, we got a good laugh and probably made that poor girl feel silly for asking. I’m sorry for that. But maybe a little less sorry because she totally skipped my base coat.

I didn’t grow up with a sister. And it would have been sort of funny if she was tall, blonde and blue-eyed, if I had. But that Kelly, I tell you, she sure plays the part. Dealing with infertility has sucked the life out of me at times. And even my long-suffering husband sometimes needs to be spared the outcome of my oversensitivity to people’s insensitivities. When that happens, I call Kelly. She listens. I cry and vent and try not to swear. And even though, there’s nothing she can do to change the situation, she gives it a go to change my outlook on what’s in front of me. She really rallies for me and my happiness. She gets it. Infertility is a bitch. She curses the wretched situation and then we laugh about how ridiculously we sometimes respond to life. Kelly’s bursting laugh helps heal me.

In this stage of uncertainty, doctor’s appointments and endometriosis diets, sometimes it’s hard to relate to the outside world. This struggle is so specific. So immense. So life-altering. As I meander along, slow to come to terms with just about anything, I have recognized this one piece of the puzzle. God has given me a friend to stand by my side as I trudge along. She brings me rain boots for the downpour. She brings me sunscreen for the heatwave. She shows up with her kind, smiling, freckly face anytime I need her. And I am so thankful for that sister of mine.