If I were to talk to a woman on the brink of having her first child, what would I tell her?
I would tell her to let go of how she thought things might be so that she might find herself fully fitted to grab onto what is.
I would tell her how she’ll soon find herself doing most of the things she said she’d never do when she realizes there is no peace to be had in being at war with her former pomposity.
I would tell her how truly brief is that window of time when her frailty and her baby’s fragility will meet head to head in a monsoon of emotional tempest.
I would tell her to remember that in the tough pinnacle of sensing her weakness to remember that she can do it — but that if she ever feels as though she truly cannot, to reach across for help.
I would tell her that guilt will sidle up to be her constant companion, but to let it steer her into always trying to do the next right thing even if the end of every day finds her praying for a better tomorrow.
I would tell her that the physical tiredness is temporary but the soul exhaustion that is continually muscling for the good of her child is permanent — but that in time she will see it as a mercy, for its constant presence reminds her to keep vigilant.
I would tell her that the undoing of one’s deep-seated selfishness is a slow and gradual process through the long act of being a daily, living sacrifice.
I would tell her that she will find herself to be weaker than she thought and stronger than she imagined.
I would tell her that there will be this moment along the way when she will suddenly and completely be in tune with the little person nestled against her and to not fear or grieve if that connectedness is not immediately felt in the initial flood of newness and lostness.
I would tell her that no matter what anyone tells her she should do, the best promoting she can ever follow is that sense of knowing that tugs deep within her, somewhere behind the curve of her womb, tucked under her heart.
But I would never be able to tell her of the clenching ache that will seep into her marrow and seize her bones when she discovers what it is to watch her heart exist outside her body. I would never be able to tell her just how truly her conception of what it is to love and be loved is about to be torn open and poured out. I would never be able to tell her about that feeling she’ll get when those little dark eyes gaze into her soul and find a part of her she never knew existed.
I wouldn’t be able to tell her about that.
Sometimes the unspeakable things of life are too beautiful for words.