Ever since I had my daughter, I have been birthing myself.
The labour has not stopped.
Nobody told me how long this would take.
Nobody warned me how much it would hurt, or how far it would stretch me.
Nobody said it would feel so relentless, so lonely at times.
I am the mother.
I am the newborn.
I am the midwife.
I am the trembling body.
I am the blood on the floor.
I am the one who holds, who soothes, who cries, who fights, who breathes through the contractions.
I am the one who witnesses the opening, the softening, the release.
I am pushing out the parts of me no one ever wanted to meet:
The rage.
The need.
The hunger.
The dreams.
The disappointments.
The betrayals.
The loneliness.
Pressure builds like a tide rising, my insides pulling apart at the seams.
I fear I'll split and spill out completely.
The waters break.
I am drowning, unable to catch my breath.
My first instinct is to thrash-wild limbs in mad panic.
I cannot contain it.
The movement stirs the long-forgotten,
the sleeping beasts at the bottom of the lake.
The water turns murky, old grief rising.
Every cell in my body screams: Run.
But I don’t.
I resist the urge.
I begin to float.
Tears sting my eyes as I squint them shut.
Staying, not running,
is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
Come on now, remain composed.
A primal cry escapes my throat.
I didn’t know I was capable of making such a sound.
But here I am - still pushing.
Still breathing through it.
Still wiping the sweat off my own forehead, whispering,
"Keep going, love, you're so close."
Every contraction crashes like a wave against the shore, and I ride it, knowing it will end with the opening I need-leaving me exposed, salty, and bruised.
I stay.
I howl.
I rip open.
I breathe.
I break.
I trust.
I bear down.
I remain.
Some days, I dilate one centimetre and feel like a goddess.
Some days, I contract, scream, and want to quit.
And some days, I just lie there, between worlds, in transition,
feeling like the old me is dying and the new me isn’t fully born yet.
In this liminal space, I pause between contractions, breathing into the stillness,
gathering my strength in the silence, tasting copper, feeling the weight of what's to come.
I am scared, dreading the next surge.
Damn, it’s already here, giving me no time to catch myself between them.
Oh no, please no, someone make it stop- somebody, please help.
It’s only me.
And that's labour.
That's what real rebirth feels like-
not a single moment of transformation,
but a path walked in blood, curiosity, and wonder.
It’s finding softness when everything is trying to turn you hard.
I am birthing not just a life, but a whole lineage of healing.
I am both the mother and the midwife
the one who pushes and the one who waits.
My hands comfort and push away, protect and let go.
There is power in self-reliance, and quiet strength in the tenderness of my own touch.
My body knows when to breathe deeply, when to rest in the pauses, when to grip the edges of myself.
This journey belongs to me alone, the midwife's wisdom now living in my hands.
The work is raw. Bloody. Sacred. Brutal.
It is loud and lonely. It echoes through empty rooms.
It is terrifying, and it is holy.
And I am doing it.
Every single goddamn day.
I am not late.
I am not wrong.
I am exactly on time.
I will stay in the labour.
I will not rush the birth of myself.
I will breathe, cry, bear down, and believe.
I am so close to a new version of myself that I will look at her and say:
"You were worth all of it."
And hear her say,
"I’m so proud of you."
Cleaning the blood and wrapping myself in a towel,
I whisper,
"It's okay, baby, you're safe now."
And I am also the baby in my own arms, finally safe enough to cry.
She is strong, honest, gloriously messy- so real, she no longer needs to be small or naïve to be worthy of love.
And as she sleeps, as her chest rises and falls with easy breath, I remember:
Rebirth is not a destination.
It’s a path where each moment of searing pain births something irreplaceably yours, creating something that could exist no other way.
I will walk it, step by deliberate step, contraction by sacred contraction,
until I meet myself again and again-
forever evolving,
forever becoming.
I birthed myself in secret,
with no hands to catch me but my own.
Had I cried louder, the predators would have come
so I retreated,
silent, trembling, half-alive.
But now I hold my newborn self close,
blood staining my palms, pooling on the floor by my feet.
And I wonder:
How do I make sure the blood doesn’t splash onto my daughter?
The answer arrives not in sealing the wounds,
but in tending them with deliberate tenderness.
It is in letting my labour be mine alone,
so she may run free, unburdened by its weight.
It is in catching every crimson drop before it falls.
I miss some,
please forgive me.
I wrap her in the blankets of my care,
stitching together the seams of a world she will never have to know the full weight of:
my blood, my labour, my sacrifice
kept from her, hidden behind the surgical drape of mothering love.
A brave smile on my battle-worn face.
I promise to do better.
I will give her everything I have and teach her all I know.
I will keep her near, but be able to set her free.
I vow to grow, to be better,
to soften the hard edges of me to show her the best this world has to offer.
She is not my midwife.
She is not my healer.
She is only a child-
bright, untouched, pure, whole.
My role here: create a sterile field around her childhood.
In the quiet dawn light, I press my lips to her forehead, feeling her warmth against my still-labouring body.
I bleed so she does not have to.