“I remain fascinated by where you go as a woman once you are a mother and if you ever come back.”
- Rachel Cusk
For as long as I can remember. I remember this: words come easy to me, not always spoken words, not always fully known words, not always the words that feel right, but words nonetheless. Words act as both a guiding post leading me home while also, at times, showing up as a friend ushering me out to the deep dark forest, all the while reminding me I am not alone.
Through the art of language and expression, I have been opened up to the realm where discovery lies, where the what-ifs become reality, where pain and grief become easier to be with, and where, at times, I am able to greet joy, solace, gratitude, and ease.
Over the years, I have learned to rest my words on the page while I try to follow along, deepening my story and uncovering what shows up through the movement of my hand. And while there are many avenues to knowing oneself, I am continuously amazed by my inability not to look away from the letters on the page that form my truth. They captivate me and enliven me; they make me question and become more curious about the world, and when I can see them closely enough — I can hear my voice.
Finding my voice has been what has both awakened me and also kept me moving toward a longing for the deepening of my understanding of myself, my internal landscape, and my relationship to those around me. With practice and years of continually returning to the vibrations of who I am, I have met the softness of the human tongue and the longing of fast-moving fingertips. Every part of me now has something to say and something to love. I am no longer silenced. I often say writing broke me open, and now the only way through is to keep going.
Except when I couldn’t.
Although I worked really hard to connect and harness my voice, the journey of becoming a mother took my breath away. As a new mother and a survivor, my experience of carrying a child, moving with labor and trusting not only the world around me with my body and my baby but also trusting my own body created an opening that I was not expecting nor felt prepared for. While they often say you can never be prepared for such a transformation, I was still silenced by the resurfacing of old wounds while also seeing the potential for deeper healing. All of this newness flooded in before I was ever able to utter a sentence. The words, although there, somehow got trapped, lodged somewhere. Even though they were felt, they were also unseeable. And although what is hidden never really stays hidden and would someday make itself known — the journey undoubtedly opened me in a way I was not prepared for.
Soon after I gave birth, I quickly realized that this specific journey of becoming mother is forever. And that the truth about this, forever, is often hidden in the cracks on the walls we are not supposed to see, not supposed to touch, and especially not supposed to talk about.
So much of our journeys into motherhood are never spoken or ever given words and space, and yet we need this more than anything.
Speak Your Peace is a weekly newsletter where letters become sentences, and sentences become a movement, all acting as an attempt to make sense out of the very intricate, complex, and often unspoken parts of the journey of motherhood.
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