Being aware of my body isn’t something I learned growing up. If anything, being a child in my generation often came with (explicit or implied) instructions to ignore what I was feeling in the name of doing what I was told. Read: respecting elders was a non-negotiable, even if their definition of respect was questionable. Thankfully, these days, the elder that I’m most often tasked with abiding by is me. And I wouldn’t dare tell myself to “sit down and be quiet.” 

I see her, and I wonder - what type of world prompts such a dear heart to call herself dumb. What if it’s me? What if I’m getting it all wrong while trying my hardest to do this right?

Until a few hours ago, I only knew a few things about my late grandfather.

1. His name was Leon.

2. My grandmother feared him and ran away with my mother to escape his harshness.

3. He showed up at my grandmother’s new home, out of state and unannounced, and took my mother for nearly a year in hopes of urging my grandmother to return to their marriage.

Having aborted previous pregnancies due to familial expectations or uninvested fathers, I wanted to experience a pregnancy where I felt grounded and undoubtedly sure about the union I was bringing a new life into. It took nearly seven years for me to fully accept and feel as if I existed within an emotionally safe environment, and then I experienced a miscarriage.