I Had Already Become Her.

Saturday night, my husband and I went to a CloZee concert.

The kids were at their grandparents. We had a hotel room down the street with a giant tub, nowhere we needed to be until the next morning, and plans to completely let go for a night.

We also intentionally stepped outside our normal state of consciousness.

That's not really the story I'm here to tell, though.

The story is what happened inside my body.

Before the night became difficult, there was this incredibly beautiful moment.

We were sitting on a hill overlooking the stage. Joe was low to the ground in a beach chair and I was sitting between his legs, his body wrapped around mine.

As we sank into the music, my body started moving.

My hips shifted and opened. My pelvis moved with the beat. I found myself folding and stretching into positions I don't consciously remember choosing.

I wasn't trying to make anything happen.

My body wanted to move, so I followed it.

Eventually I looked at Joe and said, "I feel like I'm giving birth."

He laughed.

But I meant it.

I've always wanted more children.

But wanting another baby and being willing to have another baby haven't been the same thing for me.

My last pregnancy taught me what it looks like to grow a baby from a body that isn't adequately nourished. Then I breastfed until I reached a point where I simply couldn't keep pouring from myself anymore.

That experience eventually became part of what sent me searching for another way to live inside my body.

At first, I thought healing would come from outside of me. I spent a long time trying supplements, protocols, detoxes—all of the things I thought would finally make my body work the way I wanted it to.

Eventually I had to ask a different question:

What inside of me isn't healing?

That question changed my life.

It began the much longer journey of learning how to nourish myself, listen to my body, stop overriding her, and eventually stop abandoning her altogether.

So for the last year, when Joe has asked about another baby, my answer has been no.

Not because I didn't want one.

Because I did.

I just wasn't willing to disappear in order to have one.

I needed to know that I could walk into pregnancy differently this time. That I could feed myself when my body changed. That I could honor what I needed even while another human was depending on me. That motherhood didn't automatically require placing myself at the bottom of the list again.

And recently, something shifted.

For the first time, my answer became yes.

Not because I suddenly knew exactly how another pregnancy would unfold.

Because I realized I trusted myself enough to meet it.

I trusted myself to eat.

To rest.

To speak.

To ask for what I need.

To notice depletion before I'm completely empty.

To care for myself while I care for another person.

I thought that was the trust I needed.

And then, sitting underneath the stars at that concert, my body showed me another layer.

There I was, low to the earth, my pelvis open, gravity underneath me, moving instinctively while my husband sat behind me.

He was holding my body. Wrapping me in his warmth. Making sure I was drinking. Giving me whatever I needed while leaving me completely free to disappear into whatever was happening inside of me.

I looked up at him and said, "I'm so glad you're my person. You've got my body so that I can travel to the stars and get our baby."

His response was immediate.

"Where else would I be?"

I've thought about those words over and over again.

Because I haven't always found safety in someone else's arms.

And perhaps more importantly, I haven't always found safety inside myself.

I've spent years changing that.

Learning my body.

Feeding her.

Listening to her.

Learning the difference between discomfort and danger.

Learning to stay when my instinct was to disconnect, override, control, or escape.

Underneath those stars, I felt what it might be like to bring my own safety into my husband's arms.

He didn't need to take over.

He could simply hold the outside while I traveled inward.

And suddenly the question wasn't only:

Can I take care of myself through another pregnancy?

It was:

Can I stay with myself while I go get our baby?

A few hours later, I got to find out whether I actually believed any of that.

The night took a hard turn.

By the time the concert ended, my body was struggling. I had under-eaten, hydration had been difficult, and eventually my stomach revolted. While everyone else filtered out of the amphitheater, I was still trying to stabilize enough to leave. Eventually security needed to clear the venue, and Joe helped get me back to the hotel. 

Back at the hotel, I did everything I could to support myself.

Food. Hydration. Minerals. Warm water. Bodywork. Rest.

But at one point, both of my calves seized into intense cramps at exactly the same time.

My first instinct was to scream.

There was a time when I would have.

Pain used to send me immediately into panic. Intensity felt like danger. I would fight whatever was happening inside my body because I desperately needed it to stop.

Instead, I crawled onto the bed.

And without consciously realizing what I was doing, I positioned myself between Joe's legs.

The exact same position I'd been in underneath the stars.

Except this time it wasn't beautiful.

It fucking hurt.

He wrapped himself around me.

And I breathed.

I breathed while every part of me wanted the sensation to stop.

I breathed until my body finally released.

And somewhere inside of those breaths was a knowing I didn't have to think my way toward:

Pain and intensity do not equal danger.

I can hurt and still be safe.

Joe wasn't rescuing me from my body.

He wasn't controlling the experience.

His body simply became the structure behind mine while I stayed with myself.

And that distinction means everything to me.

I've spent years talking about embodiment.

I've spent years learning to listen to my body instead of overriding her.

I've learned about nourishment, herbs, minerals, movement, nervous-system regulation, rest, pleasure, boundaries, and all the thousand little ways we can return to relationship with ourselves.

But apparently there are some things I don't get to understand theoretically.

I've joked before that I accidentally activated life on hard mode.

And hard mode has a particular way of teaching:

You can theorize about trusting your body.

Hard mode says we're going to practice.

Saturday night, I practiced.

The experience wasn't graceful.

It wasn't an Instagram-worthy picture of embodiment.

I was overwhelmed. I hurt. I needed help. Other people cared for me. My husband cared for me.

And none of those things meant I had abandoned myself.

Because through the pain, intensity, discomfort, and lack of control...

I stayed.

I stayed with my body.

I breathed.

I listened.

I reminded myself that I was safe.

I offered myself support.

I asked for what I needed.

I allowed my husband to hold me without asking him to save me from myself.

That is embodiment.

And sometime afterward, reflecting on everything that had happened, I realized why this experience affected me so deeply.

I think I've been waiting to become a particular version of myself.

The woman who trusts her body.

The woman who can remain present inside intensity.

The woman who know how to receive support without surrendering herself.

The woman who could someday walk willingly into another pregnancy knowing that she cannot control what happens, but trusting that she will remain in relationship with herself through whatever comes.

I thought I was still becoming her.

Saturday night showed me something different.

I had already become her.

A few weeks ago, I trusted myself enough to say yes to another baby.

Saturday night showed me the woman who said it.

Maybe that's what trust actually is.

Not knowing that everything will go the way you want.

Not believing that nourishment can protect you from every difficult experience.

Not becoming so embodied that nothing ever overwhelms you again.

Maybe trust is simply knowing that when the experience changes, when the plan falls apart, when your body hurts, when life becomes intensely fucking human...

you won't leave.

Whatever comes next—in motherhood, in my body, in whatever season is waiting for me—I don't have to know exactly how I'll navigate it.

I know something more important.

I know where I'll be.

I'll be here.

With my body.

I'm not leaving her again.

We are in this together.