There’s heaps you can do. But nothing that I’m willing to ask for.
It’s been a hot minute since I’ve shared.
It’s been a hot minute since I’ve had words for my feelings or space for my words. My son is a half-god vessel of healing for this world, and my recreation of myself has, so far been brutal. Like, mosh brutal. Like, metal.
I’ve been thrown from one hot mess into another, my mental health taking a dive I didn’t know it could take after my general major depressions return during pregnancy, and postpartum depression joining forces with my disordered eating… All my guides would give me was “shh. Wait”.
I waited. And I knew the loss would be great. And the heart would need to be heavy before a golden path was laid out. The whole universe has hold of me right now. I barely fell before I was caught. I get to watch my favourite emotion play out its beautiful, unapologetic dance with some of my favourite people in the entire universe.
And in a time when I will be fiercely protective of my love, I will shamelessly use this platform to journal my grief. I look so forward to experiencing the raw brutality of everything it throws at me. Everything it makes me feel that I’ve stored up to put my son first. Everything I couldn’t process because I was too burnt out. Then I was too unwell. Then I was too pregnant. Then I was too unwell. Then I was too ppd new Mum. Buckle up. I might even rawdog this one.