IMG_2783The electric storm gathers in my body as I’m trying to settle into sleep. It’s been brewing all day, and no matter what tools for static-clearing I try – sitting in the creek, writing, dancing, resting – nothing brings calm. Something needs to emerge. Something needs release. But I don’t know what it is.

As I’m texting goodnight to my husband while he puts Everest to bed, I write: “My legs are restless. I’m in a weird state. Maybe it’s pre-Everest’s birthday. I don’t know.”

“Yes, lots to do for the party.”

“Yes, but it’s not that.” And then suddenly: “9 years ago I was about to go into labor.”

“Yes.”

“It was so awful but our greatest gift was on the way. And now he’s almost nine.” [You can read my labor story here and here and here.]

“Too fast.”

“Yes. He’s so big and tall and beautiful and sweet and fun and amazing and smart and creative. Just like his Daddy.”

“And his spirit shines through.”

“Tears falling on my iPhone.”

“: )”

“I miss him now. Coming in to say goodnight again before I try to sleep.”

I come into the bedroom, tears streaming down my cheeks, and wrap myself around my sweet child, his face pure from near-sleep, his golden hair tousled like a lion cub. “I love you infinity,” I whisper. “I love you infinity, too,” he replies.

When I return back to my bed, the storm clouds break and I cry great sobs of grief. My body remembers the bittersweet joy of anticipating my son’s birth, the pain of the estrangement with my mother wrapped up in my grandmother’s death, the thrill that my giant moonlike belly would finally push forth our baby, the sweet love between my husband and I and our final days as a twosome. Layers of grief that are only released when I allow myself to walk through a transition consciously.

“Why is this hard?” my anxiously engaged clients often ask me in the months before their wedding. “Why do others glide through this transition with joy while I’m struggling?” Because you’re highly sensitive. Because you feel change and the passage of time more acutely. Because you’re wired differently neurologically, which means that you’re more emotional and introspective. Just like my son. Just like me.

When I wake up, my body is tired but my soul is clear and my heart is open. I’m ready to celebrate my boy. I’m ready to usher him in to his next birthday. I’m ready to walk by his side, or perhaps a few steps behind today, as he crosses this threshold, walks the labyrinth, and enters a new stage.

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