Crowning

There is a version of me

pressed against bone,

turning in the dark,

waiting for the right contraction.

This has not been a gentle becoming.

It has been back labor.

It has been hours with no dilation,

breath counted in fours

while doubt dripped from the IV

like a slow and clinical rain.

I have gripped the rails of my own ribs

and have cried out,

“I can’t do this!”

more times than I can measure.

This pain did not ask permission.

And went on to split me open anyway.

There were nights I lay on the cold tile

of my own uncertainty,

convinced the silence meant failure,

believing that the loneliness was proof

I had truly been abandoned in the process.

But somewhere beneath the scream

was a pulse.

Steady.

Ancient.

Purposeful.

Something in me knew

this was not destruction

But rather the development of meaningful dilation.

The burning ring of fire felt electric, unbearable and righteous. Surely a fueled opening.

Though the old skin resisted.

The former name clung and stories of the past begged for anesthesia.

Still, the contractions returned-unbearably.

Each wave saying:

Push!

Push past the version of you

that learned to survive.

Push past the voice

that whispered these vices will comfort.

Push past the utter ache

of outgrowing rooms

that once felt familiar.

I have been afraid

of the tearing,

of the blood,

of what I might lose

in the splitting.

No one tells you

that rebirth is a solitary room.

That even with people around you,

the passage is only one body wide.

No one can push for you.

And yet

between the tremors

and the shaking hands

I have felt it:

The head crowning.

The new breath waiting.

The undeniable weight

of who I am becoming

descending into the world.

This labor has been long.

It has been merciless.

It has been holy.

And though I have pleaded desperately

for it to end,

I have never truly wanted

to go back.

Because deep in the marrow

of the pain

I know,

I am not dying.

I am delivering.

And when this final wave comes,

when I bear down confidently

with whatever strength remains,

I will meet her

slick with struggle,

crying loudly with life,

eyes wide and new and unafraid-

The woman

who was worth

The pain of

Every.

Single.

Contraction.