Having a garden is good for someone who is both wild and also likes a little control. I dream of owning an orchard one day, a jungle of vines growing and dying; something I can tend to that matches my inner chapters. I am always looking for ways to be seen and belong (aren’t we all?). 

There’s a phase at the end of labor called “transition”. This marks the peak of intensity right before the relief of a baby being born. This is the moment where many women report wanting to give up and echoes of “I CAN’T DO IT ANYMORE!!” have been heard across hospitals, homes and generations. 

However, the idea of “transition” extends past the finite hours of labor. 

I’m always on about birth and death as my greatest teachers in this life so far. Every sequence and pattern in those near opposites I find almost daily as I work my way through life. 

The blips of rage-inducing tantrums that I think will never end. And yet, like the waves of birth and grief: it will pass, it will pass, it will pass. 

The mental anguish of judging and fear every time a hard emotion comes.

It will pass, it will pass, it will pass. 

Starting a new project and feeling wracked with doubt and overwhelm. 

It will pass, it will pass, it will pass. 

There is really no birth and death as singular events, but rather rhythms and themes that continuously unfold. We are born and we are constantly being born. We experience death and are forever revisited by grief. 

In the washing machine of hard moments, I remember: relief is near.