Transformative Failures

There is nothing stranger or more unbelievable than actual life—and I’m talking from experience.

The year I turned 49, I was —happily childless, newly single—a photographer and yoga teacher with a burning desire to write a comedy based on my experiences. Frustrated by my failure to actually sit down and do it, I travelled overland to India and arrived in Rishikesh, planning to join a hardcore Ashtanga yoga retreat instead. But as soon as I arrived in this spiritual hotbed, I had a sudden aversion—a real loathing—for anything remotely yogic, and hid myself in Krishna Cottages next to the Ganges, pissed off with everything.

And it was there, very unexpectedly, that the comedy poured out of me. I couldn’t get it onto paper fast enough. I had never experienced anything like it before; it felt like freefalling, pulled along by a desperate need that completely gripped me. “This must be what real writers go through,” I mused, amused by my strange cravings. One week I would only eat cheese, then I longed for jackfruit, then developed an obsessive yearning for old-school pink bubble gum (impossible to find in a spiritual hotbed), all while endlessly nibbling on dry crackers in my tiny hut surrounded by scribbles.

Six weeks later, I had emptied every last word onto reams of paper. I gathered them all up and glanced at myself in the tiny mirror as I headed back out into the world. I looked rosy and plump—a very different shape from when I had collapsed into my hideaway. I called a friend who was on her way to see me and joked, “I’ve finally finished the comedy, and I’m pregnant!” She replied, “I think I am too—I’m bringing some tests.”

It turned out I really was pregnant, and so was she. At 38 and longing for a child, it made sense for her. But I was certain my chance of conceiving had well and truly passed, and I certainly had no desire to be breastfeeding at 50. I’m still in awe of the extraordinary wisdom our bodies hold if we listen. For me, doing any extreme physical activity would almost certainly have ended the tenuous start of my pregnancy—and I would never have known. Sitting still on a bed writing was exactly where I needed to be.

Fast forward nine months of unexpectedly loving pregnancy—despite the doubts and pressures of others, the high risk of Down syndrome, being a single mum, etc. I became a lioness. If my son Louis wanted to be here, I would do everything in my power to take care of him.

But Louis checked out at the last minute. After our beautiful time together, he was stillborn. He set me free—or as a friend said, he gave birth to me. After some time in the emotional wilderness, I discovered physical theatre by chance and just knew I had to follow it. No one else understood—neither did I—but I felt that pull again and had to go there.

Now, 16 years on, I have toured with dance companies, joined the circus when I turned 60, and continue to perform to this day. My son Louis has been with me the whole way. While performing with Ockham’s Razor in This Time, I was invited to tell a short story, and I spoke about Louis. From that, a film director asked to use my monologue as the basis of a short film, which is now touring festivals around the world. Unbeknown to them, they premiered the film on his 15th birthday.

It would have been easy to feel I failed as a mother, giving birth to my son—but I truly believe I succeeded in unravelling a hidden part of myself that longed to be lived. I continuously thank my son for enabling this in my lifetime. I also became aware of the unspoken experience so many women go through—conceiving and miscarrying at any stage—and the importance of honouring our unborn children, and ourselves.

Below is the film. Please feel free to contact me if you’ve had similar experiences and feel alone with it, or if you just want to connect.

leecarterimages@gmail.com