a work in progress

Category: Pregnancy (Page 1 of 2)

The nerve centre.

It had been dead.



I’d seen blood and body rush out.

Forming rivers in a shower.

Fusing and departing.

I’d seen a life.

It breaks you in so many ways.

We think the worst of it is in the womb.

Or in the mind.

But it’s also there.

From where it leaves.

And so.

For nights, for days on end.

I’d sought something.

To fill the void.

The doctors said six weeks of no sex.

But they were happy to stick up a plastic cold probe up my vagina and wiggle the shit out of it.

And I had no idea.

My vagina.

Had been through a trauma of it’s own.

And now I realise.

How fucking insensitive and unaware we are.

Of course it feels.

Of course it breathes.

It is life.

It is the creator of life.

And when it was finally loved.

I wept.

And wept.

And wept.

In the dark of the night.

Finally maybe, I could begin to feel anew.

We don’t know.

What the body goes through.

What the vagina goes through.

Heck, we don’t even use that word without cringing.

For weeks.

I have been seeking.



Someone listen to me.

Someone cradle me.

Someone feel this pain that I feel.


And I didn’t know it.

I sought it emotionally.

I sought it physically.

And slowly, slowly, conversation after conversation,

Some form of healing begins.



Note: I wrote this a long time ago. It was one of the first time we’d had sex after the miscarriage and I was in tears. In the middle of it all. And I couldn’t find the words to write “sex”. But I feel that. It is important. For us to know. Our skin feels things. Not just our mind. Like a knee hurts when we fall. A lower back hurts when we lift too heavy. Perhaps, a vagina hurts when it looses a baby. And maybe, we need to find the words to express these things. Because those words, as inappropriate or even as indecent as they seem, as so important. To express. X


There is a mild depression.

It’s like nothing really.

It’s just a little harder to wake up.

A little harder to give a shit.

A little harder to love a little.

It’s a nothingness.

There was a baby inside of me.

And now there is nothing.

But nothingness.

And I’m resigned to being ok with it.

And yet not.



Dear Aru (Mid-April, 2018), 

It’s been a long time. 

A long, long time.

You’ve been patient with me, while I’ve been catty with you. 

It’s hard to explain to a 3 year old what a miscarriage is. 

Or even think it’s appropriate for them to know. 

Mummy had a baby in her tummy and then the baby died. 

So mummy is sad. 

Daddy is in struggle town as he assesses our drained finances. 

Contemplating whether to sell the apartment or get a loan. 

Mummy and Daddy can’t be there for each other, like they usually are. 

Because some major shit went down. 

Is that how it goes? 

And I know. The ship will turn. The winds will change. The sun will shine. 

But maybe one day. 

When you’re going through some shit of your own. 

You come here. 

You read this. 

And you trust. 


You’ll make it through. 

Just like us. 


Your Maa. 

With child.

NOTE: I wrote this a good 7 months ago and I don’t feel the same way. I wasn’t going to post it, because it just felt bad to say that I ever felt that way. But I think part of this whole thing, is being ok with feels. And I realise, it’s totally ok. Xx K


So you are with child. 

And I love you darlingly so. 

My heart beats for you. 

You are my blood. 

My love. 

My mother. 

My sister. 

My friend. 

My world. 

And I know. 

That this sinking feeling inside me. 

I want to quash. 

This fear. 

You but not me. 

I’m not there yet. 

Not with child. 


I feel. 

The why. 

And I want to quash it. 

But instead. 

I let myself. 

Feel it. 

Feel the sorrow. 

The simple one of not getting what you want. 

The feeling of someone else getting what you want. 

I let it wash over me. 

And I know. 

It will be ok. 



The Garden is Overgrown

It’s funny in a way.
Normally, I would have planned it just so.
Someone to nurture.
Someone to water.
While I was away.

But I guess in someways, I couldn’t offer it.
Couldn’t care enough for it.

So now we’re back.
And it’s over run.
Run a muck.

Creepers twirling.
Passion fruit vines, crushing the curry leaves.
Tomato-less tomato trees sprawling over the concrete.
Dried, dried leaves.
Dead as they droop.

And I look at them and am reminded.
Of my lack of desire to nurture.

Where I was once so attentive, we had herbs and chillies, alive and tomatoes ripening in the sun.

I’m now barren in a way.
Nothing to give.
Nothing to slay.

The Ultrasound

I just want to check your left ovary.
She says to me.
Her stick pushes and darts and my discomfort stays alight.

Her screen says so much to her. Blood here. Vessels there.
To me it says.

I knew it yesterday.
I’ve know it for days.

This is a far cry from the sex I know.
I’m not allowed to have it for 6 weeks.
But that stick is akin to a sarcastic joke made to burn.

She keeps going.
Left right, in, out. Centre. Back.
I understand.
She’s doing her job.
Getting all the information.

Getting it down to 15 slides.
That I have miscarried.

That there is no life in my womb.
Just a teaspoon of blood.

I know this.
And yet.
I’m here.

Wondering why I’m letting her do her job.
So thoroughly.
When I need.

The Miscarriage

You left me yesterday sweetheart.
Or maybe you left me before.
But today, I woke up, and you weren’t in me anymore.
I could feel it.

Unusually light.
The lightness.

It was a dark day.
I don’t even know.
How I feel about it all.

The thing is.
I didn’t know you.
We chatted, but rarely.
But my box was ticked.
Two kids.

How presumptuous.
And now I wonder.
Was it the future I’ve lost that I’m sad about?
Your Daddy was the first to think of your soul.
Of your journey.
Not his attached to yours.
Purely yours.
He’s always been the selfless type.

Tears in the night.
Blood neatly contained.
Bed to bathroom to toilet to bed.

No need for reasons.
It’s just as it was always meant to be.
Except we didn’t know.
What was meant to be.



PS – If you’re my friend and you want to message me – please kindly, don’t send me a whatsapp or an email or a DM. To be honest, I find this kind of a conversation can only really happen in person and I’m sure the next time we catch up, you can flood me with your hugs. Just not the emoticon version. With so much love. Xx


This new body

The stretch marks I adore, I wouldn’t try to remove them for anything in the world.
The legs that splay apart as if they still know what it feels like to have a weight pushing upon them. The thinnest ankles holding so much weight, much too much weight.

Breasts that are brazen now, not as shy as they once were, but still concealed and firmly kept in place with the all amazing Fayreform. Lopsided and confused for life, hopefully Rumi will bring back the balance. For now, I look at them in the mirror and wish they were smaller and even.

A tummy that can blow up like a balloon after too much of the wrong thing. But will often stay resting, gently tucked in as if all is well for now. The layers of handle, never sure as to when to leave, remain. They are not from Aru. Well some are. But the most are from long before. I’ve never come to terms with them. We’ve been frenemies from the day they began to appear.

Perhaps anytime now, I’ll learn to look at them with love, rather than with irritation.

I read this now and I realise.

If I had a firm stomach and balanced breasts, I would be 14 again.
And I don’t want to be 14 again, not for any amount of money in the world.
I love that I know myself better now.
Know that I can depart from moments I don’t need to put up with.
Know that I have found love and it is rare.
Know that there is a little boy in my life who loves me with the sweetest of souls.

I also realise.
I am not other women.
They are not me.
We all have things the other wants.

Money. Bodies. Body bits. Talent. Eyes. Eyelashes even. Love. Sweet love.

The trick seems to be.
To be happy with our lot.
Perhaps that is the hardest skill of all.


For your pregnant friend (and mine). 

I’ve got a dear friend who is pregnant and she reminds me so much of myself when I was pregnant. 
I guess there are some women who have wanted children all their lives. And then there are those of us, who often pick up a baby, only to have it start crying and so we quickly shuffle the bubba back to the mumma. 
This is for the not-so-maternal-but-going-to-be-a-mum-type-woman. 
Hey lovely woman. 
I know how icky and frustrating and weird all of this can be at times. 

I remember saying to V, “I can’t wait to just get him out of me!”. 

Sometimes Aru would make me feel so gooey and lovey inside, and on other days, I’d pronounce him a “Little Shit” even before he was born. 
And the thought of being a mum? It was unknown to me. 

To be honest, we had Aru for more practical reasons, rather than, “Oh my god, I can’t wait to be a mum squeal squeal squeal“. Not. 
And when he came. 

I didn’t know what the fuck to do. 

None of that, it all happened so naturally bullshit happened to me. 

(Sorry Maa, I know I swore back there). 
Aunties and Mums would look at me like I had the solution. 

And I sure as hell didn’t. 

I remember stumbling and stumbling and stumbling some more. 
I also remember something inside of me taking over. 

An emotion I’d never really had before. 

Like a light bulb (a mega watt one), it shone. 

I was maternal. 

Sure every now and then it was a bit like a tube light which takes time to flicker on. But nevertheless. 

I was radiant guys. 
Finally I had arrived at this whole motherhood game. 

And I was like BRING IT ON SUCKERS. 
After so much confusion. 

Fights with just about everyone. 

Books and failed books and lessons and more lessons. 
I chose a motherhood that I couldn’t find. 

I stopped looking for examples. 

I stopped stalking Instagram profiles with waaaayyyy to much good advice. 

I stopped reading about dying babies on Facebook. 

I opted for daycare when I was ready. 

I chose to be honest about when I’d had enough of him. 

I found my own methods after so much tumbling and falling. 
And you know what. 

He’s turning out pretty damn fine. 
And I’m hella sure. 

Yours will be as well. 

Just so long as you do it your way. 

Because you’re the best mum for your bubba.


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