In the quiet of the night, cradling Aki in my arms as I nursed him to sleep, I found myself swept away by a torrent of emotions. It's a sensation that accompanies breastfeeding, enveloping me in its depth and power. For 2 years and 8 months, we're journeying together, nursing on demand, round the clock, no bottles, just the direct nourishment of my body. And amidst it all, the sweetest moment arises when Aki, seeking the nurse, softly whispers: Home.
Moments like these leave me humbled and profoundly admiring of my body's incredible capabilities.
I remember when we drove through the desert the first day after giving birth, I was in shock. I didn't know what to do. I had no family or friends close by, no one to care for us or to hold or guide us. I was scared from the c-section and could barely walk. This was my second open surgery in less than 2 years. My body was startled, shivering, shaken; my soul sublime, sincere, and swooning over the sweetest boy in my arms.
I didn't read any books on motherhood, didn't delve into research, and refrained from buying many baby products. I'm unsure if it's sheer foolishness or an unwavering trust in life, but I've always approached things by letting experience guide me.
I wanted this experience to be only mine. Although I felt, and still feel, grief for not having a mother, a grandmother, or a friend—a "village" by my side through the most potent initiation of my life—I knew that this solitary path of mine was somehow written in the stars.
When we got home from the hospital, the first thing I did was sit beside a Joshua Tree and breathe while Aki slept. I tilted my head toward the sun, held the sacred sand in my palms, and contemplated how I sat in the same spot, a completely different woman just a few days ago.
In my life, I've loved more trees than people. It's a simple truth, though a somewhat melancholic one. The land always shares clarity, answers, medicine, and resolve to trust in my body, even when my mind is far from aligning with it. The heart of nature, of trees, connects me to my heart, and that's always been my guiding star.
As I sat under the Joshua Tree, worrying about breastfeeding, I realized a painful truth : I doubted my body. I doubted my ability to be a mother. I doubted.
Then, I got angry with myself.
After years of spiritual work, healing from generational trauma, and forging my own path, I thought, "Is this where I find myself?"
It felt like a regression, a return to the starting point. I expected to be better equipped to handle these emotions. I thought it would be easier by now, considering my experience in managing my PTSD. But this time, I couldn't escape into the woods for hours, lose myself in nature, or find solace in silent meditation. The entire world was right in my arms, and I, too, was his whole world. The weight of responsibility was immense, and I had no other way but to hold it all.
Then, I got angry at my mother.
Why didn't she teach me about my body? Where was she when I needed her most? Why did she associate confidence with physical appearance? I find myself questioning why she invested so much time, as I remember, in her appearance, dieting, and the pursuit of looks rather than inner fulfillment. Why did she seek validation from the gaze of men instead of honoring her own remarkable mind?
I've been feeling so much grief in motherhood. Grief for not being able to talk about it fully because I worry that if I do, people will think I don't love my son. People may think my grief is bigger than my love. And yet, I’ve discovered they’re not separate at all. I feel grief for even caring what other people think. Grief for carrying so much of it alone. Grief for not always doing it "right." For sometimes yelling and wanting to just run away for a day and sleep all night. Grieving the baby stage and seeing my boy grow so fast. Looking through the pictures every night and tending to my heart. Grief for having a mother in another country that doesn't feel like having one. Grieving all the past versions of myself. Grieving the years gone, the friendships lost, the departed ones, the forgotten ones, the memories. Grieving the loss of intimacy and sensuality. Grieving the lost career opportunities. Grief when I look in the mirror and don't recognize the reflection staring back. And all this grief I allow to flow through me. I experience it all and sob my feelings as my son sleeps curled on my breast. The grief of this powerful metamorphosis.
One aspect that I mourned deeply was my past relationship with my body.
I recalled the days when I'd suck in my belly to make it appear smaller. When leaving the house without makeup was unthinkable. I remembered prioritizing work over rest, enduring discomfort to avoid bathroom breaks, and holding in my pee until my stomach ached. I thought back to times when I feigned pleasure to satisfy others and moments of emotional suppression through overeating.
I used to place immense value on my appearance, a trait inherited from my mother, though I struggled to admit it. I always considered myself above it all, avoiding discussions about body image until motherhood changed everything. Until I no longer had time or inclination to apply makeup, until I embraced my "mom pouch" and loved my body without shame.
This body, which birthed the love of my life against all odds, defied countless doctors' predictions. This body has endured the ravages of war, witnessing horrors no child should ever experience. This body, transplanted onto foreign soil, adapting to new surroundings and challenges. This body has tirelessly produced milk, nourishing and caring for my son with unwavering devotion. This body, my companion through countless iterations of the self infuses my story with profound love and meaning. This body, capable of creating art, expressing through words, and experiencing the otherworld through senses. This body—this powerful, cosmic entity—that I wish I had cherished every single day of my life with kisses, embraces, and boundless love and respect. This sacred vessel, akin to the earth herself. This portal of the universe, this life-giving force. I vow to honor her every single day from now on.
Then, I got angry with the system.
I got angry with the culture that has lost its soul and every connection to the land, the feminine, the sacred. I got angry knowing we're all made, not born this way. Angry at the oppressive capitalist and patriarchal structures that have alienated us from nature and each other. Angry that we've been told to sit all day, work 60 hours a week, to override our body's needs and its messages in the name of productivity. A system that has so thoroughly lied to us all along, lied to our parents and their parents. A system that prioritizes financial gain at the expense of human well-being, exploiting our bodies in various insidious ways. Angry at the relentless pressure to fit unrealistic beauty standards pushed by industries profiting from our insecurities. Angry that our worth is equated with appearance and wealth. Angry at the calculated messages targeting the most vulnerable. Angry that our bodies are perceived as flaws to be corrected rather than wonders of nature to be embraced and revered.
That day, beneath the Joshua Tree, I found myself with no one else to rely on but my body. Trusting in myself became my only option. With only the tree to confide in, I invoked the sacredness of the earth and my own being. Stepping back into the house, I prepared to breastfeed despite uncertainties about technique, milk supply, and myriad other concerns clouding my mind. In that moment, I leaned into my instincts, wholeheartedly believing in my body's ability to nourish my baby. In that instant, I wanted to seize a moment with my son free from any doubt, even if only for a moment, regardless of the outcome.
And since then, for nearly a thousand days now, we've been breastfeeding, day and night, experiencing this sacred bond—demanding at times, yet overwhelmingly beautiful, the most precious experience of my life.
This body—this earth that allows me to immerse myself in my senses and trust the intricate wisdom of my sentient flesh, this direct communion with the trees, with the breasts, with the tears that impart all wisdom—this body that transmutes grief and anger, birthing the alchemy of creation. This body that loves so profoundly and merges seamlessly with the land.
This body, this earth, inseparable and bound by the rhythms of life.
This body that I love.
With so much care,
Vanja
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You definitely have a way with your words . You said everything that people tend to experience and overlook so often , but they don't realise how immense the back ground of all that their feelings is .
Especially the part where you talked about coming back to the starting point , it gets so frustrating when you realise that after putting in day and night , and making a lot of progress, you are back at the starting point .
Beautifully written. You are a great mom. Pozdrav.