They came. I found them, and they found me.
Sometimes they’d been there all along. Fifteen years in the making. Others, a fleeting meeting, a moment of chance, turned into solid dependability.
They’re the ghost of the imprint left after the flash goes off. A half-developed Polaroid. They are the faces left behind in the dazzling light. They are the faces I will see long after I’ve gone from this mortal place.
My lifeblood.
The sometimes silent, invisible strength that radiates from women.
We show each other what is possible.
They are the hand-holding, voice-noting, quick phone-calling angels. They are my oldest friends, leaving the space for me to fall apart and come back together again, always on the edges, ready to swoop in. They are the new 'mum' friends. A space to cry and breathe and obsess and question freely.
Endless circuits of the local park.
'Me too, yes, that happened to me too.'
'Can I send you a photo of it?'
'No, you are not going crazy.'
'Please go and get a second opinion.'
I recommend this book, this podcast. You can borrow mine. Let me come sit with you. Let me hold the baby. Let me not even have to say it out loud. Let me clap the loudest for you in a room where you are absent. Let me love you.
A message from the distant, dormant past, a woman with an older child.
Welcome, congratulations, how are you?
Breastfeeding? Yes, difficult, heroic, you’re doing well.
This turned into voice notes, late-night panic messages, calls of hope and encouragement.
Turned into coffees and confessions and a reignited flame.
Turned into I’m so glad I met you.
The women in my life came. After birth, after the metamorphosis.
I found them, and they found me.