Alright, so.
It’s been years since I’ve felt at ease in sharing—really sharing—in a way that feels true, in a way that language comes easily. It’s not that I haven’t tried, but every attempt has felt like reaching for a thread that slips through my fingers. Like trying to catch the imprint of a hand that has already lifted—there, unmistakable, yet impossible to grasp.
I’ve been in a kind of cosmic goop state since pregnancy. Chrysalis. No up, no down. No clear orientation. Just dissolving, breaking apart, being remade from the inside out.
And I know I’m not alone in this. I know there are those of you who have walked (or are walking) your own version of this path—becoming something new while the old is still soft around the edges. I see you.
For me, speaking and writing have always been how I make sense of life. How I weave meaning from the mess. How I offer something back. But it’s been near impossible to do that in a way that feels whole, or even remotely coherent, while being in the th…
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