i see vulvas, and they are birthing galaxies.

many, many moons ago, i saw vulvas in the night sky, exploding into stars, birthing galaxies within the folds of slick lips. many, many moons ago, i wandered through dim, balmy tunnels, enveloped within the earth’s womb-like burrows, softly cooing me toward doorways beguilingly shaped in the curves of the vulva. these are the things i saw in the depths of an inky black cauldron, sinking into the palms of my cupped, still hands. these are the things i depicted to my hearth sisters, weaved closely within our hushed ritual circle, as i softly recounted my scrying ventures. lips blossoming into knowing smiles, they held the sacred space i needed for my sharing. i suppose that was the beginning; the beginning of coming to self, the beginning of shedding light on the darker recesses i did not want to see. i was afraid of what my body knew, what it had lived through, what it had kept out of sight, unfailingly out of mind. my body knew, but i did not want to understand.

three hundred and some sixty odd days passed, and i had not yet come to know what my body knew so well. i begged it, ever-so quietly, ever-so inconspicuously, to keep it to itself. the days dimmed, the dark half of the year edging closer, and i felt myself drawing inwards, pulled by the soothing lure of the autumnal energies. it was an odd place to be — a place of inner-searching, of reflecting, and somehow, of deliberate deflecting. that october, i saw the vulva again. this time, she lay etched into the hard, woody ridges of the apple tree. she opened for me, the tree swallowing me whole, and i gently tumbled into a warm, snug embrace, only to face a second portal. i stared in awe at the living, breathing vulva before me, lying my forehead against it’s silky, heartening skin. and i cried. i cried so incredibly hard.

i’m sorry, i’m so, so sorry.

these words spilled out of my lips incessantly, until i could no longer cry.

that october, inside the depths of the apple tree, the ethereal mother, i unearthed one of the many faces of the trauma that was ingrained within me.

autumn shifted into winter, winter into spring, and finally, spring into summer, and i found myself once again tucked away in a vision, this time under the shadowy planes of the elderberry tree. the mystic grandmother, the tree of beginnings and endings, of deaths and rebirths, of transformation, of the crossing of thresholds. hands on bark, i breathed in the gentle, mighty elder, unwittingly giving myself to her power. it was there, under the sage eye of the willowy crone, that i was hit with the faint stirrings of a memory, and i knew deep in my bones that i had found it. in those first moments of utter panic, of disorientation, of feeling completely and utterly violated, the grandmother tree was there, quietly waiting, leaves rustling in the breeze. when i needed to desperately hold onto something, she was there, firmly rooted in the soil. she held the space i needed to see the memory that had been hurtled from childhood, now violently clawing its way into my present reality. at last, i came to understand what my body had always known, what i had readily forgotten. i knew then that the cellular memories my body had carried were those of sexual trauma. and the grandmother tree had held the space for me to feel safe in my body when i did not yet know how to.

a little over a year has passed since this shattering ‘coming to self’ moment. through their soft strength, these sacred feminine archetypes of the earth guided me through a tremendous period of rebirth, one i had been on the cusp of for the entirety of my young adult life. of course, my journey did not end that night under the soft swaying of the elderberry tree. it has been a year of grieving, a year of violent, triggering depression. but, it has also been a year of sexual awakening. a year of learning what it means to feel embodied, of learning what it means to reclaim my sexuality, to reconnect with my body — a body i had grown to feel was a dangerous place to be, a body i had unconsciously understood as never really belonging to me. i learnt the power of claiming my narrative, and by doing so, began to heal the violence my body has been carrying for so long. the violence that has co-existed with every sexual experience, every bodily moment i have had growing into my self.

this is not an easy thing to do.

there are times when i can feel it crawling under my skin, violating me in ways i do not truly comprehend. and i may never will. i have no way of justifying my trauma, no concrete evidential support, no glaringly crisp memory to seize, to scream “see, this did happen to me.” all i have is the deep knowing of my body, and it is enough. it has to be enough. i don’t know what chapter lies ahead, but i do know that i will put my body first every step of the way. and i will do so by learning to trust what it has to tell me. it knows, and it always has, what it means to be embodied, to be honoured, and to be grounded in my sacred sexuality. i used to see my body in a haze, unable to discern my strength, but now.

now i see vulvas, and they are birthing galaxies.