Dear womb,
There was a time I didn’t know how to listen to you.
You were the place where life was meant to begin—and yet, for so long, you were the space where dreams ended. Where I felt pain, confusion, emptiness. Month after month, year after year. I blamed you. I resented you. I wept into the silence of your unknown.
But what I didn’t see then—what I couldn’t feel yet—was how much you were holding for me.
You carried my grief before I had words for it.
You held the ache of each loss, each procedure, each whispered prayer.
You absorbed my fear, my shame, my self-doubt.
You bore the weight of the stories I inherited and the ones I told myself.
And still, you stayed.
Still, you pulsed quietly with life. Still, you waited—not just to create a child, but to reconnect with me.
It took me a long time to come home to you.
I had to peel back the layers of survival I’d built around you.
I had to sit with the discomfort, the numbness, the walls I didn’t know I’d built.
I had to learn how to feel again. How to forgive. How to honour the woman I had become through it all.
And when I finally did—when I softened and placed my hands on you not with blame, but with tenderness—something shifted.
You began to speak.
Not in words, but in waves.
Not in logic, but in energy.
You whispered truths I had buried: that I wasn’t broken. That I was never too late, too much, or not enough. That you remembered everything—and still, you were willing to heal with me.
So now, I honour you.
Not because you gave me a child—though you did.
But because you showed me what it means to come home to myself.
You are more than an organ. You are a portal. A keeper of memory. A vessel of creation, whether that creation is life, art, or self.
You are sacred. And you are mine.
To every woman who has felt disconnected from her womb—who has felt betrayed by her body, silenced by shame, or weary from trying—this is an invitation to return. Gently. Without pressure. Without demand. Just presence.
Sometimes, the path to healing isn’t through doing more.
It’s through remembering. Reconnecting. Reclaiming.
Because when we come back to the place that held it all,
we remember—we were never alone.
We were always held.
Laetitia x
