Oh, baby! Announcing our Pregnancy in 2020: Vulnerability and Optimism in Photography | Apollo Fields

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The first thing I see when I look at these pictures of my wife, Heather, aside from her powerful, natural beauty, is the expression on her face. The way that the curl of her lips bends ever so slightly toward a smile as her chin drops a little. I notice the way that her jawline and the curve of her shoulder become parallel, creating a window of light between the shadows. As my eyes move down her arms and around her body, I begin to read the story wrapped into her posture; the gentle grip of her hands and fingers as they hug her breast and belly, the baby bump that protrudes from her pelvis in a blanket of light. Yet sitting in the whites of her eyes, the tragedy of our ectopic pregnancy lingers, staring back at the lens through a fragile shield of doubt. Then, although we will never forget, it disappears in an instant—as soon as you swipe the screen—and all that remains is Heather’s steely resolve. This is my wife. The soon to be mother of our first born child.

A couple years ago we shared a picture of us seated on the floor of our cozy cottage in Colorado, surrounded by cardboard boxes and cleaning supplies, crying as we were moving back east. We took great pride in this moment of vulnerability, in sharing the emotions that we were sure that anyone who has ever moved can understand. We shared it because we wanted to tell our story as authentically as possible, and to us that has to include the tears and tough times. We didn’t know that in the years to come we would build on this strength in vulnerability, and make it a cornerstone of our storytelling.

A couple of months later in 2018, Heather shared a post about her emergency surgery on Christmas Eve that resulted from an ectopic pregnancy. We now laugh at the image of our former selves crying on the floor in our Colorado home; oh boo hoo, I have to move. All joking aside, we recognize that a person’s vulnerability falls on a spectrum that is predicated upon their past, and that emotional walls stand to protect that which is fragile. We understand now more than ever that we must be careful with our words as they are symbols of our actions and beliefs. We have taken great care with how we deliver this personal message from our hearts to yours.

With the news of Heather’s pregnancy in early Covid-19 days, we were buoyed in quarantine with hopes of parenthood. Yet we each cast an eye of doubt at all of the good news that came out of the high-risk appointments, fully expecting another tragedy to land. Eventually, we made it past all those uncertain days only to see the tragic video of George Floyd’s death a couple days later. We watched as Black Lives Matter protests swept the nation and social media became even more flooded with animosity than it already is. Heather and I spoke everyday, rewriting take-after-take on what kind of message we should deliver in solidarity with BLM as Apollo Fields. We were trying to show our support for the movement while also delivering the news from our personal lives.

We were scared that anything we said could somehow be misunderstood. We were worried that our brand hasn’t represented the black community enough. We were worried that putting our clients who are persons of color front and center would appear disingenuous. We were (and are) increasingly appalled at the demonstrations of systemic racism that still run through the veins of this country. We questioned the American ideals of freedom and democracy altogether. We were vulnerable. We are vulnerable. And we should be.

Heather’s face in those pictures goes from worried to resolute. In that instant, you swipe away all of the nights of tears that we’ve endured. I think as a nation we were taught that Abraham Lincoln in 1863 did the same thing for blacks in this country—that he swiped away all of their suffering with one swoop of the pen—in June 2020 it is very clear that he didn’t.

I remember sending Heather into surgery on Christmas Eve, pulling words from out of thin air, trying to tell her that it’s going to be okay. I remember holding her hands when she got out as her purple lips trembled, her teeth chattering from the anesthesia. Are there any more blankets? She asked through her shivering lips. I remember just holding her hands—and looking into her vibrating green eyes—grateful that I could into them once again. I couldn’t imagine ever getting angry at her. I had never felt something like that before, like I momentarily understood the depth of human experience: there were no words, there were no feelings, there was just being who I had to be for someone else.

As I write this I am squirming in my chair, procrastinating by getting up to do household tasks I’ve avoided, diverting my attention from focusing on my own vulnerability. I’m grappling with the process of becoming a father amid a pandemic alongside the development of the BLM movement. It feels like I’m standing in a house and the walls are cracking all around me. Chunks of the ceiling crash into the wooden floor like meteors into the earth. I am holding my child under one arm, bowing my head over Heathers, trying to shield us as best I can. The open air in the doorway provides an escape but a support beam plummets down, blocking our path. There is no running.

This is the state of the world like it is the state of my mind. It is a battleground for what we and I stand for.

I stand for BLM, I stand for my child, and I stand for vulnerability; for I believe therein lies the strength to carry us from tears to resolve, from rebuilding a broken house into a stable one. It all starts by tearing down the walls, embracing our vulnerability, and sharing our story with the world. This is our life, the soon to be home of our first born child.

– Terrence