When I was pregnant last fall, my due date was Late July. Chuck and I joked about announcing the pregnancy with a bag of Late July chips, a vegan, Dorito-like derivative packaged in bright lime green, and a favorite snack in this household.

The subconscious – and now conscious – realization that if I hadn’t miscarried that Christmas Eve, I’d be a mom of two boys right now is surely one source of my nebulous mental state this week, as I toss out yet another negative pregnancy test.

And it’s not just that. We are officially less one year from leaving Missouri, but we don’t know where to next. The dance fitness studio that had brought me movement, joy, and community just closed down for good, mere months after I found it. I have no real plans coming up – no trips, get-togethers, or visitors.

I finished the book I was reading. Finished the show I was watching.

Work may not be all that engaging but it’s fine and I’m grateful, but also… meh.

I’m left with a restless feeling of “what’s next?” that weighs nearly as heavily as this intense summer heat.

I’ve taken care of the easy ones first. After much indecision, I settled on my next book. Found my next show. I’m back to my daily walks, even if it’s soupy outside.

I’m pondering whether it’s worthwhile to squeeze in a summer trip to the Lake, but can’t seem to garner the focus to make decisions and book it.

I’m working on getting my anxiety under control. It’s not crippling, but it’s distracting and definitely not conducive to a healthy reproductive life.

Truly though, I worry that I’m so caught up in my uncertainties and busy fretting about what’s next that I’ll lose my ability to be present in what I have. I have a lot of wonderful blessings and a beautiful life. Why am I feeling so unsettled? Perimenopause?

Seriously though.