The Girl I Once Was

There is a long list of things no one tells you about pregnancy.

They don’t speak of the identity death.

The soul-rattling grief.

The quiet extinction of the girl you once were.

Yes, they tell you about the glow. The heartbeat. The miracle.

But they rarely whisper about the ache that comes with becoming mother.

About how, in a moment—snap—you’re no longer just you.

You are Mom.

And that girl you were? She doesn’t return. Not really.

This is the grief I want to speak to.

Not instead of the love,

But alongside it.

Because both are true:

I love my daughter with every thread of my being.

And I grieved—deeply, wildly, endlessly—for the girl I was before she came.

A woman sits on the beach, gazing out at the ocean, accompanied by a ghostly image of herself, merging the past and present under a cloudy sky.

The Sacred Grief No One Mentions

I didn’t plan to get pregnant.

And as my belly grew, so did the ache.

Not for the absence of a baby—

But for the vanishing of me.

The me who chased new restaurants,

Who danced wildly into the night,

Who spoke on stages, cracked jokes,

Who burned with curiosity and kissed life with abandon.

She didn’t leave slowly.

She vanished in an instant.

Gone—

Before I had time to say goodbye.

And what remained was someone slower.

Quieter.

Tender and raw.

Careful with her energy.

Protective of her time.

Unable to move through the world as she once did.

Not broken.

Just reborn.

Motherhood as a Rite of Passage

What I’ve come to understand is this:

Pregnancy is not just about giving birth to a child.

It is also the death of a maiden.

And the initiation of a mother.

But unlike ancient cultures that once honored this metamorphosis with ceremony, community, and care—

Our society rushes us past it.

Tells us to “bounce back.”

To smile through the stretch marks.

To hold the baby and forget the woman holding her.

And so, we sob in the quiet.

Not just from hormones—

But from heartbreak.

From losing the version of ourselves who will never return.

And from the terror of becoming someone we do not yet know.

This Is a Holy Grief

This grief is sacred.

It deserves altars.

It deserves midwives for the soul.

It deserves to be felt—not shamed, silenced, or shoved down.

In my practice as a womb healer, I’ve seen this grief lodged deep in the pelvis—

Held behind the pubic bone,

Stored in the cervix,

Wept into the womb like a sacred offering.

And here’s what I want every woman to know:

Grief is not the opposite of gratitude.

It is a companion to it.

To grieve who you were is to honor her.

And to feel your pain is to open space for your becoming.

A Ritual to Honor the Woman You Were

If this resonates, here is a simple sacred ritual:

1. Light a candle for the girl you once were.

2. Write her a letter. Speak to her. Thank her. Tell her you miss her.

3. Place your hands on your womb. Whisper: “Thank you for carrying us both. I am still here. I am listening.”

4. Let the tears fall. They are holy water. Let them bless your becoming.

You Are Not Alone

To all the mothers—planned or unplanned, ready or not—

Who are still grieving the girl inside the woman:

I see you.

You are not broken.

You are not selfish.

You are not weak.

You are walking the sacred path of initiation—

From girl to mother,

From chaos to quiet,

From wild fire to steady flame.

Let both be holy.

Let both be loved.

You have not lost yourself.

You are becoming someone new—

Someone deeper, wider, more tender than ever before.

And she is worth grieving for.

And she is worth waiting for.