“I CAN’T.”

Two simple words.
I’ll never forget the feeling.

The feeling of harrowing agony, obliterating pain, excruciating anguish. That feeling of drowning, as every unrelenting wave of contractions came crashing over and through me, pulling me under, denying me even a moment to come up for air. That feeling of falling through a deep, never ending abyss that I couldn’t endure, touching the edges of death, getting pulled into oblivion. With each contraction that surged through my body, the thought—I can’t. Wishing it could all be over, praying for it to stop. All the while knowing that after this one there would come another, and another and another.

In this space, time stood still and time expanded. An hour felt like a moment, and a second felt like an eternity. I was beckoned into a deep shamanic presence. Where nothing else existed except the death-defying sensations charging through my body. When all I wanted was to leave my body, I was summoned deeper in. This space of I can’t. It’s a space where light cannot reach. It’s impermeable to hope, impenetrable by possibility. It’s in this space that we lose touch with the truth and vastness of our divinity. We succumb to the lies told about the smallness of our humanity, a conglomeration of all the voices doubting us in the past. It’s a space where we become so tunnel visioned , that the thing we resist sits as an immovable blockade in front of us—our very own Mt. Everest.

“I can’t”
“I can’t”
“I can’t”

and yet, I did, I did, and I did.

Again and again I found myself on the other side of the seemingly insurmountable. Again and again, I was faced with the opportunity to re-write the story of my power and my capacity.

This is the power of birth, this is the alchemy of an initiation.

An initiation that alters you irrevocably.
An initiation that catapults you into the next iteration of your being.
An initiation that reveals to you who you truly are—beyond your mind, beyond your self concept, beyond everything that your past has made you believe yourself to be.

And one day, you look back and realise, I’m so much stronger than I think.

…

One early winter’s morning, my daughter was born. And in that moment, so was I. Amidst the blood, the roars, and the transcendental pain, I was being made anew. Perhaps that was the moment of my rebirth, or perhaps that was just the beginning of my death. I still am not entirely sure. But one thing I do know for sure—my daughter had to be born in order for me to be reborn.

Even during pregnancy, I already knew I was walking a journey of rebirth. I approached the birthing process feeling excited, expectant, bright-eyed-and-bushy-tailed; impatient to be reborn a celestial goddess. How naive of me to think that I could be reborn without dying to my old self first. How remiss of me to forget that Kali is a goddess too. The birthing process went exactly to plan and yet, it wasn’t the birth that I hoped for. It was equal parts otherworldly, surreal, and traumatic. A journey into the depths of the underworld where I felt myself touching upon the edges of death. With each wave of bone shattering agony ripping through my body, I was being stripped down layer by layer. Because there needs to be a breaking apart in order to be pieced back together again.

To be pieced back together stronger and more resilient than ever before.
To be pieced back together with more love in my heart than I ever could have fathomed.
To be pieced back together as a mother. Her mother.

I didn't know it at the time—coming out of my 3-day birth journey, depleted, nauseous, and broken—but now I know: I went through her birth initiation so that I could become the mother that I'm meant to be.
I went through my rebirth initiation so that I could become more of me.

…

Time passes, and you start to forget.
The nights seem less hard,
and the anxiety feels less sharp.

Days pass, and they grow.
Their eyes brighter, their grip stronger, their laughter more pronounced.

Gone are the days when the world seemed blinding, new, and unknown.
To them coming out of the womb as a newborn baby.
To me coming out of my postpartum haze as a new mother.

Who was I in those first few months?
The mother who was constantly in tears.
Tears of awe at the vastness of her love.
Tears of grief for how alone she felt.

Who am I now?
As I begin to emerge out of my cocoon of new motherhood.
No longer a new mother, not yet confident in my motherhood.

Who will I be?
As I acquaint myself with my new identity.
As I allow myself to be chiseled by motherhood.
Letting it write a new chapter onto the contours of my being.
Allowing you to leave your imprint on my heart.

-Emergence

…

Let motherhood shape you.

Just as your baby’s unique fingerprints are formed by the swirl of your amniotic fluid around them and the pressing of their little fingers into the walls of your uterus—allow yourself to be moulded by this little one that chose to be yours.

Through every cry, every comfort, every late night feed, allow yourself to be chiseled under the light of the moon.

Every time you feel utterly alone, when you’re consumed by the fumes of frustration or completely at a loss and at the end of your rope, you are being forged in the fires of motherhood.

Let motherhood shape you.

Carved, hollowed, and flushed full to the brim—again and again with a love you never could have imagined. Fortified again and again with a strength you never could have fathomed.

…

Motherhood changes you.

undeniably
irrevocably

From the inside out,
From the outside in.

Motherhood challenges you.

through the anxiety,
the exhaustion,
the frustration,
the worry,
the guilt,
the pain.

Motherhood heals you.

With every little laugh,
little hands on your breast and head on your chest.

Motherhood makes you.

You become the woman
you never knew you could be.

The woman you were always meant to be.

Made through Motherhood.