Lately, the image of the womb has settled at the center of my imagination as a sanctum.

A suspended refuge for the life that was, the one that could be, and the one that hasn’t arrived yet.

It holds everything I don’t quite know how to say, but feel deeply: grief, fear, longing, emotional inheritance, and the presence of all the women who came before me.

Here, the womb becomes a symbol of memory, possibility, refuge, and continuity. A glowing form hanging in the air like a question:

How much of me comes from them?

How much of who I’ll become is already written in this space?