I wake in the morning with the familiar heaviness bearing down. It was a night of little sleep, so I lean into the exhaustion. My son is up, and wanting company in the living room, so I rub my eyes and grab my robe and tie it around my waist and pull it as close to my skin as I can for comfort. Once he’s settled, I whisper that I will be back, that mama needs to write.

I do not tell him what I need is to cry.

I do not cry, but I do get words out in my journal that won’t ever see the light of day. The heaviness lingers.

Words are spells, dear one, I hear as I spill myself on the pages and I remember. The night before, I saw something pass about a woman putting her daughter to bed and holding her close and murmuring, “you are so easy to love” as the breaths deepen and sleep takes over.

Ah. There is it.

I move over, give space for Grief, and offer a small smile.

“It’s been a while, friend.”

I run myself a bath, the steam rising as the water collects. I opt for the bath bomb I’ve been hanging on to for a special occasion, complete with a crystal marked for healing. Seems appropriate. I sink into the heat, my breath catching and serving as a reflex of the tears waiting to release, and I clear my throat. I scroll through the meditations and land on one I can’t move past, and press play.

The tears come, then. Welcome, aching, cleansing, heaving. I cry so hard a contact falls off my eye. I fold into myself, wrapping my body in the tightest hug imaginable.

I know, I know. It hurts. I know. I’m here.

I learn all over again how to mother the wound.

The ache doesn’t disappear. I don’t magically bounce out of the water ready to tackle the day. In fact, the ache eases into the next day, and I sob while watching TikTok videos about our inner child and continue while attempting downward facing dog and cat-cow. There is no saluting the sun this morning. There is, however, a little lion using my tabletop pose as an opportunity to give his stuffed zebra a ride. I smile through my tears and whisper thank you before quietly asking if mama can have some space.

I walk through my day as best as I can, most often wrapping myself in some type of blanket or sweatshirt or protective outer layer. I clean the boxes and books piling up on our kitchen table. I finally take the stack of mail and throw away the coupons we’ll never use. I do all of this while Clarissa Pinkola Estes’ blesses me through my AirPods, reminding me what happens when women sing over each other’s bones. I tend to my plants, pulling off the dead pieces and greeting the new buds and thinking to myself how this simple gesture, this simple care, is more than I’ve received for most of my life.

The tears come again, and I let them fall. I make myself some lunch and drink some water and turn on the Maggie Rogers’ album I know by heart and begin to write.

I start to sing, feeling the vibrations in my bones.

Come awake, love.
Rise up, dear one.

Further up and further in, I am becoming Someone new.