Separate being. For a long time, I haven't felt like a separate being from my son. For nine months, we literally shared a body, with each thing I ate nourishing him, each emotion I felt affecting him. For 10 more months after that, I fed him from my body, sometimes hourly, before he would often fall asleep in my arms. Sometimes, in my sleep-deprived state, I would hardly know where he ended and I began. Still now, he's often clinging to my legs, sitting in my lap, asking to be picked up, or worn in a carrier on my back. Still not really a separate being.
I'm not complaining--when he rests his head on my shoulder, or raises his arms for me to pick him up, or snuggles up close, the warmth in my body and heart spreads like sunshine filling the sky. I like that he needs me now because I know he won't always. But sometimes, in the confusion of who-is-he-and-who-is-me, I miss myself. I need myself again. I need the sunshine to illuminate my separateness.
So coming today feels like a huge step. Even sitting and staring at blankness for a while. Because I'm here to tell my story, to write my truth, in some small way--to find my voice again. Although that separate self does have a new title: mother. I wear it with pride, if also trepidation.
I have struggled a lot since earning that title with finding where I fit in the world in other ways--do I go back to work full time? Doing what? What am I called to do? Who am I? So many questions I've struggled to answer.
It starts here, with this page, with my separateness.
And now, the page isn't blank anymore.
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