Becoming.

 It's been a while, folks.

It's been several years, a couple of kids, a pandemic, several therapists, a few different rounds of meds, a size or two up and then down and then up again.

This isn't a comeback; it's more of a "hey, I'm still here" sort of thing.

(My fingers are already cramping. I guess we'll have to get them used to typing again.)

I'm still a flight attendant. I'm still married. I'm still a mom. I'm still a person.

(Funny how that last one was almost an afterthought).

I had this thought today, while driving back from Costco. I had forgotten to take the bulky double stroller out of my trunk so there were groceries piled up in every space that didn't have a small person in it. I was holding a pumpkin pie on my lap, trying to meditate my way out of the panic coming over me as both toddlers screamed and fought in the backseat and reaching for my Mocha Freeze from the food court (a small luxury I thought befitting a parent who had just sat up all night with an unhappy, sick toddler) when I realized something.

Birth did not end the moment my children's small, plump, pink bodies exited my body.

The physical pain was mostly over in that one second after my children came earthside. The relief - in stark contrast to the crescendo of torn flesh and blood and unbearable fears the moment before a perfect baby was suddenly in my arms - was wonderful, but short lived. My body healed, mostly. My organs rearranged themselves, somewhat magically. My uterus shrunk down and began its repetitious cycle of shedding itself every month, hopeful for another chance to grow a life. My breasts did their thing, pumping out colostrum and milk and sending hormone signals to my pituitary gland and ovaries and releasing that oh-so-wonderful oxytocin. My body, like a well-orchestrated machine, reset and awaited instructions.

But my brain is still there, in the moment between worlds.

My whole being is still in transition.

I am not who I was before I became a mother.

I am not sure who I am.

I am becoming.

I am being molded as I make my way out into the world. It is a slow, excruciating process. It is like birth. It is a rhythm of pushing and pulling me in the direction I need to go. At times, the pain is unbearable and I don't think I can go on. Old fears resurface, threatening to drag me down with them. Bones shift but do not break. I rotate to fit the narrow passage. I cannot breathe but must trust that my lifeline will supply what I need. For now.

It seems humanly impossible, this feat of becoming a new person.

At certain times, becoming this new person is a curious sensation. I learn to trust the unknown and there is a sort of thrill in the little moments. I look down at a stomach lined with stretch marks and cellulite, like an inverted map of the stars. My brain chemistry has changed and there is a new magnitude to the highs and lows. It takes my breath away at times, the intensity of my love and grief and hope. Just as with birth, I need to lean into these powerful surges. Let them wash over you knowing that you will catch your breath. There is beauty in the feeling of surrender.

I am becoming.

Breathe in.

I find myself not knowing what to write or how to tie this up in a neat, tidy little bow. The "before" me would know. But now I sit with the uncertainty. I don't know how everything will work out. I don't know if my kids will nap this afternoon. I don't know if it will be a good day or a not-so-good day. I don't know if the pandemic will stretch on for another year or ten or one hundred. I don't know if I'll be laid off or if I will gain the confidence to find my voice and live my life exactly as I hope.

Breathe out.

I just know that I need to keep going. Keep going.

I am becoming.