HOOK

HOOK 49 fresh leaves, cas3ng speckled shadows on my lap. I closed my eyes, hands res3ng on the swell of my belly, and simply listened. The rustling leaves. The song of a mourning dove. The rhyth- mic inhale and exhale of my breath. Everything around me whispered the same lesson: Slow down. In a world that glorifies busyness, preg- nancy teaches a different rhythm, the sacredness of rest, the necessity of surrender, the quiet power of simply being. As the world turns green and alive, I realize that pregnancy, like spring, flourishes with the right care. Just as a garden needs sunlight, water, and rich soil, so too does new life. I nourish myself with fresh fruits and vegetables, slow walks along the Hudson River, gentle hikes, and the ground- ing flow of prenatal yoga. But more than any- thing, I learn that rest and s3llness are just as vital as movement. In a culture that measures worth by produc3vity, pregnancy teaches me that growth happens in the quiet spaces—in the moments of pause, in the deep breath before something new begins. Preparing for a baby isn't just about folding 3ny clothes or se5ng up a nursery. It's about crea3ng a space where both mother and child feel safe, nourished, and deeply held. And as birth approaches, I begin to think not just of labor but of the sacred days that follow the tender, raw, and beau3ful threshold of post- partum. I prepare a space of so#ness, knowing my body will need 3me to heal, my heart 3me to expand. I gather nourishing meals, warm blan- kets, and the wisdom of those who have walked this path before me. Just as spring does not rush into bloom, I remind myself to allow the grace of slow recovery. The world teaches us to prepare for birth, but I also prepare for the quiet a#er the days of holding, res3ng, and becoming. As my due date nears, I find myself drawn to the stories of the women who came before me: my mother, my grandmother, the ancestors whose hands once cradled new life. I wonder, did my own mother feel the same quiet awe when she carried me? Did my grandmother sit by a window in the spring, feeling the same delicate s3rrings of life? Pregnancy is not just the crea3on of a new soul. It is a con3nua3on of all the lives before us, a single thread in a vast and 3meless tapestry. Moving through this season, I think of the ways different cultures honor this passage into moth- erhood. In Mexico, La Cuarentena offers 40 days of rest and healing a#er birth, a 3me to be cared for by family and community. In Japan, expectant mothers wear a hara-obi, a sacred belly wrap be- lieved to provide warmth and protec3on. In some African cultures, pregnant women are sur- rounded by song and storytelling, a reminder that a child is not just born into a family but into an en3re village. Across 3me and place, preg- nancy is more than a biological event; it is a sa- cred threshold, a bridge between what was and what will be, a journey best walked with love and And just as trees bloom without questioning whether their blossoms will be perfect, I remind myself to trust in my body's wisdom, to surrender to the growth that happens beyond my control.

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