For my people, the mothers, who are told their womb is barren. An empty vessel. The ones who use needles, pills, and anything artificial to reproduce. The ones who are deficient. Broken. 

For my people, the mothers, who are told they can’t bring forth life, the thing that society and science say women are supposed to do. The mothers, who feel like they have failed. The ones whose bodies failed them. 

For the mothers, who every time they see a pregnant belly start to cry. The ones who are angry and scream until their voice is a whisper. 

For the mothers, whose partners will never understand. Who live in a lonely prison of their own suffering. 

For my people, the mothers, who are hopeful, discouraged, hopeful, discouraged, hopeful, discouraged, until a miracle seed grows inside their belly. 

For my people, the mothers, whose breasts start to swell with milk, and feel nauseous at the smell of feet and grocery stores. The ones who learn to trust their bodies. 

For the mothers, who give of their bodies and souls. The ones who give a part of themselves, so their hearts can live outside their bodies. 

For the mothers, who have a mother, yet never had a mother who showed them how to be a mother. The ones who had to make it up as they went. The ones who don’t want to make the same mistakes and erase generational trauma. The ones who carry a heavy load. 

For my people, the mothers, who are grateful every day for the miracle that is life. The ones who are honest that life is never a straight line.