When Life Doesn’t Go According to Plan: A Story About Reroutes, Grief, and Hope

The Unexpected Hike

I’ve taken a few days off, dear Reader. And like so many of us with the best of intentions, I decided to go for a little hike to regroup and clear my head. Near my house is a small nature reserve with walking trails, some wildlife and good vibes. And I know the path I always take, like the back of my hand. I no longer even need to look where I’m stepping, well, apart from little parcels left by said wildlife. My normal route clocks in at around 3 kilometres, but this morning I was rerouted. A pipe had burst somewhere on the trail, and water was gushing over most of the pathway I normally take.

I then had a decision to make. Do I keep moving forward, and get incredibly wet, or worse, slip and travel down the embankment? Or do I take the other path available to me? I’ve only ever seen one person come off that path, and she urged me not to take it. When a well-travelled — looks like she’s seen things — little old Asian lady tells you to turn back, you listen. But today, I thought, what the heck, I’m on holiday — what do I have to lose?

And I took the path less travelled — the path I did not choose for myself. And while my 3km hike became a 6km+ hike, I got to see things I’d never seen before. Beautiful tall trees, outcroppings dappled with sunlight, incredible views and no one else for miles.

Pantsers, Plotters, and Life’s Reroutes

No one likes to be rerouted. Well, that’s not entirely true. In life, like in writing, you get Pantsers and Plotters. In writing, Pantsers are those writers who like to aim at a rough destination and see where the story and the characters take them. They like the freedom of not being boxed in by too many absolutes. Then you get the Plotters. The Plotters plan their story out, and they hate deviating from their plan.

Which are you? Do you enjoy being rerouted? Or do you like to stick to the plan?

I grew up fast. I was that weird kid who was widely read, loved Shakespeare and poetry, enjoyed speaking to teachers more than my peers, and at 16 was already dreaming about the life I was going to have. A beautiful wife, four kids, a dog in the front yard, and a white picket fence. Beautiful house in the suburbs. I couldn’t wait for my life to begin.

I met my incredible, smoking hot (just in case she reads this) wife at 26, give or take a year, but didn’t realise it until I was 30 — man, she’s got the patience of a saint. I got married at 32. Found a job I love at 38. We got our daughter when I was 41. Decided to pursue writing at 43. In the gaps, we waded through singleness (waiting), unemployment (waiting), trying for kids (waiting), infertility (waiting), adoption (waiting).

Each of these represented a reroute that we did not choose, and that we had never factored into our “version” of the plan. And you know what made it interesting? Pantsers marry Plotters. Yip. More often than not, the “fly by the seat of their pants” people (me), marry the “plan every detail and even plan for contingencies” people (my wife). And man, does that make life zesty, I say with a smile on my face.

I like to think that in many ways, we’ve made each other a little bit better. I’ve helped her to become a little more carefree, and she’s helped me become a little more grounded.

But this brings me to the question, dear Reader: what do YOU do when life doesn’t work out the way you planned? When God does not consult you when setting the trajectory of your life?

Step One: Taking Stock

I start by taking stock.
And what I mean by taking stock is: Is this a “not yet”, or a “never”? Or a “who knows”?

It’s important to figure this out for a couple of reasons. The first being: often we eject out of a season before that season is done. We leave jobs too early. We end relationships. We move on from having kids.

But secondly, the corollary is also true: sometimes we hold onto seasons long after they have ended. The tricky part is trying to figure out whether a season has ended or not, especially when our emotions are involved.

Our Infertility Journey

I remember sitting in a doctor’s office listening to test results that said it would be incredibly hard for us to have children. Despite the results, we decided to do two rounds of IUI, two rounds of IVF, and each time hoped against hope that things would go our way. Unfortunately, they didn’t. Almost R100 000 later, we had one more option that would have cost us a further R120 000 with no guarantees.

We came across couples who had spent almost R1 million trying to get pregnant — and we could understand their desperation. But we had to figure out whether having biological kids was going to happen for us.

We’d been having conversations about adoption, and while Maya (Plotter) was still warming up to the idea, I (Pantser) was already there. So we prayed and waited patiently, till we both had peace about the way forward. We had to figure out what that was. Were we going to adopt? Or were we going to give up on having kids altogether? And of course, there was also the third option — maybe a miracle could happen and we fall pregnant with a biological child of our own.

We had to take stock and figure out the season.

We have friends who made up their minds that they will never get married, or in some cases, married again, and they’re now happily married to incredible people. That said, I have other friends who are still single, and find themselves in a season of waiting. I have friends who thought they would never be parents. They are now. I also have friends who will never be parents, even though they desperately wish it could have happened for them. All doors closed.

The reason I share this is that life is complicated and messy. And it is incredibly hard to discern when to let go of something. Or, for that matter, when to hang in there.

Wrestling (and Finding Peace)

But the answers are found in the wrestling, and then in the peace.
The wrestling, because some decisions cannot be decided on a whim, but need to be the hip-mangling kind of wrestle. The kind where we are exhausted and lying on the floor, but finally at peace.

The peace that can only be found when we face the right direction at the crossroads we find ourselves at.

Proverbs 16:9 says “A person’s heart plans his way, but the Lord determines his steps.” And while I know that many of you don’t necessarily have the same faith stance I do, I have to believe that there is a plan, a God who is working all things for my good. Not for my easy. Not for my wants. But for my good, and the good of others.

And for me, the wrestle is with Him. It’s not a rough and tumble. It’s a Father and son, figuring out the next step together. He already knows, but He lovingly helps me come to the same conclusion. And He walks with me through the pain of doors closed and chapters ended.

Step Two: Grieving

Secondly, we need to grieve.
Sometimes a door closes, and we are so tempted to move on and jump right into the next thing. The issue with this is that we take all that regret, brokenness, heartache and baggage with us into the next season. And often the joy of the next chapter is marred by the depression of the one that came before.

The stages of grief are denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. We are not the first ones to grieve, and we will not be the only ones. Our pain may feel unique, but we are not alone in it.

Find people you can walk this road with, who will cry with you, help you unpack and deal with what you’ve lost or been through, and who will support and pray with you through the unthinkable seasons of life.

Get angry. Wade through the quagmire of depression and sadness. But whatever you do, don’t suppress. It’s tempting, but I find that suppressed tornados tend to wreck houses somewhere down the line. Do the harder thing and put the anger down, hand your dream over, and feel what you need to feel. There’s no other way.

Step Three: Acceptance

Part of walking through grief is to come to a place of acceptance. This means accepting that life is going to look different from what you thought it would.

For us, we had to grieve the biological children we would not have. The blastocysts that never became embryos. The desperate prayers that did not get answered the way we thought they should. And once we had grieved, we came to accept that life would be different.

Whether it’s the job that did not work out, or the spouse that left, or passed away, part of the journey is recognising the truth: things are now not the way we’d planned. And no amount of pleading or wishing is going to change what is.

Many of us are already walking towards new and next seasons, but we still carry the last one, that thing we’ve lost, with us.

Please hear my heart — I don’t think we’ll ever be fully done grieving some losses. Losing a loved one, never finding the spouse you’ve longed for, never having children — these things are real and raw and may require revisiting from time to time.

But if I live in a season that was, or never came to be, I can never live fully present in this one. If you find yourself unable to wade through your grief and come to some kind of acceptance, please consider speaking to someone — a counsellor, a therapist, or someone else who’s been where you find yourself now, and has found peace.

The only way forward is through and up.
Acceptance is not the easy path; it’s the harder one. But acceptance helps our hearts and minds open up to the possibility of something that may not have been in our plan, but could still be good.

For us, that meant adoption. And I daily look at a little girl that could not be more ours, DNA or no DNA. I can say without a shadow of a doubt that she was the plan from the beginning, and I cannot fathom a life without her.

Moving Forward

So, where do you find yourself, dear Reader? Have you been rerouted? Are you grieving? Are you struggling to find acceptance for past seasons that did not go the way you’d planned? And what do you feel stirring in your heart as you read this?

How do you move forward?

I’m going to say: trust and take the very next step. Maybe you’ve got to figure out whether you’ve been rerouted. Go for coffee with a friend to talk through it.

Maybe you’ve done everything you can to avoid having to think about it, and the grief is overwhelming you. Wade through it. Get angry. Shout at God. Cry. Journal. Make an appointment to see a therapist. Drink some coffee. Go to sleep. Wake up. Repeat.

Until one day, it’s a little easier to get up, and to entertain that maybe, while life doesn’t look like you planned, just maybe, there could be good seasons ahead. And then start to look for the signs. The next steps. The conversations. The whispers on the wind.

And who knows — maybe that season blows you away. Maybe God blows you away with His extravagance, His goodness and His forethought over you.

I don’t believe that God caused our infertility. But I know this: He worked things out in such a way that He brought our daughter to us anyway — barrenness be damned.

I don’t know what your next season will look like, but I hope it’s one of healing and joy. Praying for you in the journey…

If you’re navigating a reroute of your own, I’d love to hear about it in the comments. And if this post might help someone you know, feel free to share it along. We’re not meant to walk these roads alone.