My Body Remembers: Mother Warrior, Grief, and the Return of Spring
The weather has begun its dance. Warmer currents fighting for stage time when the cold asserts it hasn't finished its act. My body looks forward to the transition period where temperatures don't require much thought and the air feels like a soft caress from skin to soul. There is an excitement. But it's short-lived because my body remembers.
Even when my mind attempts to embrace the subtle beauty of the buds beginning to form on my rose bush, a sign that our hibernation is over, I am apprehensive to unfold from my resting place. My body remembers that as the cold slipped away, so did he.
Nicholas left in the spring. Shedding his body and all the pain of existing in this place with us so that he could be free. I am so happy for him, but his loss remains this sensitive wound that hurts when the air brushes against it. It always takes my breath away because it is unreal. It must be. It is impossible to exist in this reality at all times.
My body remembers.
It remembers carrying him inside my womb. Holding him and being so grateful for him. Knowing I would protect him with my life. That I would be his Mother Warrior and slay anything or anyone who tried to harm him. I remember lying next to him and feeling his little hand on my face. I never left his side. I remember the diagnosis and all the years in between when I held him tight and fought with everything I had and when he was ready to go, I let him. And though most days my mind can hold this truth; my body still remembers the loss of him.
So when I push it to shed the layers I've packed on to bury myself, it fights back. Like a mother protecting her child, keeping her safe from harm. But I cannot remain in this place, wrapped carefully and layered in this protective cloak, no matter how pretty it is. I cannot hide or remain invisible. I've been out in the world taking up space, and Mother Warrior has been watching with concern. She wraps her arms around me and asks me to stay inside. She lays me down and offers me comfort and safety.
I submit willingly because this is exhausting. Until I start thinking about how small my world has become. How the people and relationships have fallen away. She looks at me with that knowing only mothers have. A warning that only hard things await those who choose to take up space and maybe it’s okay if some of these people are gone.
She knows I am strong, but she doesn't want me to be anymore. She wants me to forget, and sometimes I do. Only for moments, sometimes hours. Never for a day. It's been manageable. Until it's not.
My body remembers.
So as spring arrives and grief settles in for a stay, I will press against this tightly wrapped cocoon creating some give in the fabric. I will assure Mother Warrior that I am OK. That I am ready for spring. I don't know if she will be agreeable, and maybe she's right. Is anyone ever truly ready?
Mother Warrior lays with me like a mother nursing a child back to health from the flu. She makes my favorite foods, tucks me into bed, puts on my favorite movie, and lays with me content that I am safe, and no harm will come as long as her arms are wrapped around me.
It's really nice. I love it for a while but like any other child, I want to go out into the world eventually. She shushes me and rocks me, not willing to let me leave yet. That frustrates me but it's not so bad. I think when I’m ready to go she will let me.
I've been absent from social media the last few weeks as I take time to navigate these feelings. I have felt so much guilt about not staying consistent with posts, but I have reminded myself I am not a robot. I would love to be an AI machine that can churn out content at the rate that the algorithm wants to be fed, but that's not going to happen. I can't get fully grounded in my purpose and ultimately serve that purpose if I'm empty half the time.
I have needed time to process and will continue to need that time. I'm running this newsletter, writing a book, starting a podcast, transforming my body, and that's just outside of the work that pays the majority of my bills.
Mother Warrior is overprotective, but she isn't just comforting me in grief. She's shielding me from the pressures of constantly producing and performing. She's protecting me from the idea that to be successful, I have to produce without pause. I've read enough posts on this app at this point to know this rant has already been thoroughly explored. But I'm over in my quiet little corner of Substack documenting the process I'm going through to actually change my life.
The experiences I'm sharing here are deeply personal but also very real. I'm not crafting a carefully curated narrative of transformation. I'm doing this work. I'm not running from it, though I have my moments where I want to. But I'm reminded that I'm not an athlete. I don't get to sprint past the hard parts. So, I will reside with the challenges and work through them, although there is something to be said for just resting in them from time to time.
In these weeks of absence, I've been learning that Deservitude includes deserving patience with our processes. It means honoring when Mother Warrior is right. when we need that protection, that rest, and that nurturing. And it means deserving to gently challenge her when it's time to emerge, even partially, into the world again.
I'm learning that all of these parts of me are filled with wisdom. Mother Warrior knows how to fight (she's a dragon, don't mess with her). But she also knows how to rest and restore herself in preparation for what may come so that she can lead when it's necessary. I'm learning to bring her wisdom with me and that Deservitude also means I get to honor my own rhythms, even when they don't match the algorithm's demands or society's expectations.
Spring arrives whether we're ready or not. Winter will take its exit and the buds on my rose bush will sprout the colors of the sunset even while I grieve. It's all necessary. Life continues to offer us beauty and extend itself as a reminder that we are still here, and we deserve to live even as we navigate loss. Deservitude means I get to claim both: the space to honor what my body remembers and the permission to reach toward what's beginning to bloom.
Weekly Deservitude Prompt
Consider your own protective forces, those internal voices that want to keep you safe, even at the cost of keeping you small. When have you needed their protection? When have you needed to gently push past it?
Write this truth to yourself: "I deserve both protection AND growth."
What rhythms of expansion and contraction feel natural to you? How might honoring these rhythms, rather than forcing constant productivity, be an act of Deservitude? What would it look like to deserve your own timeline, your own process, your own way of navigating between safety and stretching?
Share your reflection on deserving your own pace or keep it private in your journal. Either way, you deserve to move through this world on your own terms, whether that means staying wrapped in Mother Warrior's embrace a little longer or gently emerging when you're ready.