I have been struck recently by how fundamentally the meaning of something changes, just by changing our perception of it.

A few weeks before my 40th birthday, I found out that my in vitro implantation had not taken.

I was devastated. I had dreamed that this would be the culmination of a traumatic secondary infertility journey. I thought the symbolism of entering my 40’s finally pregnant would be a fitting way to celebrate my resilience, grit, determination and hope. I thought my good behaviour may have deserved a reward.

It turns out it did not.

The story of what that did to me is one to be told another day. THIS story is about perception, and hindsight and healing.

Due to his own trauma, my father did all he could to avoid the pain of loss. A fruitless endeavour, I know, but one that subconsciously defined my family dynamic for all the years that he was alive. He was a charismatic socialite; and he was a proud, financially successful member of his own family. He was known for his unexpected but thoughtful letters sent to family members going through tragic loss or illness. Cousins, nephews, grandchildren have received hand-written missives that compassionately acknowledged their experience.

So when I endured unimaginable heartbreak, I expected my letter.

None came.

Seeking medical intervention for infertility is a confronting thing. It’s an odd mix of the most empowered and the most vulnerable you could be. After years of “trying”, you are actively doing something very concrete and final.

And you know that if this does not work, there are less and less options.

While you are only trying, there is unlimited hope. When you decide to act, hope turns into finite options. And every time you need to implement the next option, you are terrifyingly cognisant of how few remain.

So a huge option left the table that day.

Everyone was very kind.

But there was an obvious silence from my father.

After a week or two I braced myself and phoned him. I reminded him that he had always been so kind to others in times of loss and I wondered what his silence meant.

There have been times when I knew what to expect from him. This was not one of them.

I heard him bristle, and then I heard the words “Because I don’t care”

I was struck dumb.

He went on to ask “How dare you?…”

“How dare you risk your son’s future by wasting this money? (secondary infertility means infertility after having a child).

“How dare you be so selfish?”

“How dare you question your fate?”

I armoured up very quickly. And saved this (along with a few others) for a time put aside that I called “when I go to therapy.”

Fast forward 11 years and I came across a neon sign that hangs on the wall in the Old Vic Theatre in London. It reads “Dare, always dare”. (image attached)

With no conscious thought at all of what my then deceased father had said, I contacted an entrepreneur that I knew of in Auckland who had recently opened an LED neon signage business called Radikal Neon- a dime a dozen now but stunningly innovative then.

I still have the quotation for the sign I commissioned - Dare, always dare.

I never had it made.

Fast forward another 4 years.

I have been through the fire. I have done the work.

I have been to therapy.

Recently, as I was quietly writing in the early morning, I was contemplating what could make a father could say those words to his child; and reflecting on how that contributed to a scarcity mindset that has doggedly followed me for years. I was feeling so sad, so very sorry for the young woman I was and how I may have let her down by not standing up to him. (I didn’t. I just quietly ended the call and went on loving him.) And I was thinking about his words..

“How dare you”

And then, out of the blue, I remembered the sign I had commissioned 4 years prior: “Dare, always dare”

I could not believe it. I was in awe. Of myself.

I realised that no matter what, my soul’s expression has always been “Dare, always dare.”

What has been fascinating to learn is that there is little to be gained by rationalising the intentions of an unhealed man.

What has been fascinating to discover is how I rebelled against it despite the trauma. Without knowing.

I thought back to that phone call. From my new perspective.

Maybe, just maybe it wasn’t “How dare you?”

Maybe it was “How dare you?”

And that has made all the difference.

The Old Vic