August 19 2024 -To my unborn daughter: light in the darkness

Note:

This is terrifying to share. It feels like opening myself wide. This is the most vulnerable thing I have ever written, the most vulnerable I have ever shared. For years I carried it in silence, hidden even from myself.

But this space — my blog, my seed project — is about daring to be ourselves. About stripping away the masks and showing the soul. Because only when we do that can we truly meet what is meant for us. Only then can our people find us. Only then can we belong.

I’ve learned, again and again, that we are not alone. That we are more alike than we are different.

And so, this is me, daring to wear my soul. Because maybe my story, my scar, my letter — will remind someone out there that theirs matters too.

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It was yet another pitch-dark, senseless argument. There were so many, it was hard to know anymore why, or what, or how. Tears every day, every night.

I was a ghost of myself. No job, just following Thibault from place to place—Belgium for his work, back to Warsaw for our life, then to Gdańsk to spend time with Filip. Three days here, four days there, seven days somewhere else. Very few choices of my own. Rotating around three places, for a whole year.

Nobody asked me if I was ready to have a child for a whole week rather than just weekends. I know it needed to happen, but it would have been nice to be considered. To feel we were in this together. To feel my feelings mattered.

It just happened from one day to the next. Nobody asked me how I felt about it.

Nobody asked me if it was ok for our weekends to be given away without a moment’s notice. It was simply decisions made by others—their wishes, their rhythms, their interests. No boundaries, no space for me. No needs I could even voice. To whom would I speak, anyway? To nobody. Just following the flows and interests of many people—but never my own.

My cries didn’t stop. My tears didn’t stop. My speaking into the void didn’t stop. But I was never listened to, never considered, never understood, never acknowledged. A ghost existence. Maybe even less than that.

And in the midst of that pitch-black situation—after a fight, after sex with tears in my eyes and pain in my heart, mixed with love and hope—it happened.

I took a shower, almost like a zombie. I could feel the particles of my body and soul disintegrating, like sunshine evaporating a vampire, turning me to ash. And in that process, that automatic unraveling, I heard this clear message inside my head:

“You are pregnant, and it is a girl.”

I had known things before, but never like this. Without a question or a doubt—I just knew. With absolute certainty. I had just had sex; it wasn’t as if I could test right away. I had to wait until I could, and when I did, the test confirmed it.

The feeling was the reverse of my disintegration. As if my soul, which had just burned away, began reclaiming itself back to life. But more than that—every cell awakened, alive. And I felt this warmth, this crazy certainty: everything was going to be ok.

I had already named you. Luminița. Like my mom.

When I was a little girl, I promised her I would name my daughter after her. Why was a little girl already talking about children? I don’t know. Somehow it was decided—it would be a girl. Between my mom and me, it felt sealed. The promise imprinted in my soul. That is what I named you as soon as I knew.

The name carries so much meaning. My mom was born dead. Her father refused to accept that reality, demanded the doctor not give up. After hours of trying, she was brought back to life. The doctor named her Luminița. It means: a little light that becomes bigger and bigger. That is the story it carries.

And when I look back at how you were conceived, I see you carried that story too.

Because you came into being in the darkest moment of my life, and you brought a golden light of certainty—anchored in nothing more than the feeling of your existence.

I had never been more certain of anything, in the most uncertain moment. Nobody could understand it but me.

From Thibault’s perspective, with his logical mind, it didn’t make sense. We didn’t even know if we were going to stay together. But I wasn’t living in logic. It wasn’t about logic. No matter whether we stayed together or not, no matter the circumstances—I felt everything was going to be alright.

But Thibault insisted.

And then, further still, I began thinking. The first thing I knew about him was how tormented he had been when he found out he was going to be a father—by accident. How it was imposed on him. How he had plans for his life that he never fulfilled. How guilt consumed him, and still does, because he never faced it.

He is a wonderful father. He is an amazing human being. Loving and caring towards his son. He is there to the best of his capacity. But he also yearned for freedom. And he felt guilty for yearning. He never even allowed himself to see it as normal. He truly and deeply loves his son.

I was with him when he couldn’t see Filip often. I could sense, more than I could see, the deep, unbearable wound.

And then I thought of you being born. Of us being separated. Of me leaving for another country. I imagined his pain—exactly as I had seen it before. I felt it. That deep, raw wound. And I imagined how ironic and cruel the world would seem to him—that yet another time, another person held the cards to his future.

Even though he didn’t consider my needs, my boundaries, my circumstances, my efforts—anything—I could clearly see his. It wasn’t about whether he could or couldn’t see mine. I just saw the whole picture—his and mine. Even though his picture was so different. Even though he couldn’t understand the activation in my body and soul. Even though he thought of it as a simple procedure, a decision.

I don’t think he ever truly tried to understand what I explained. But whether he tried or not, whether he could or not, it didn’t change the fact that I saw the whole picture. My feelings, his feelings—laid bare in front of me.

I knew what the decision would do to both of us. It was a double-edged sword, and one of us would die. And I was the wielder. Only I.

Back then, sacrifice was easy. Almost unconscious. Oh, it’s ok—I can take it. I’m strong. I’ve endured so much. I’m used to it. Better me than you. Like second nature. As if my life was not as worthy. My time, my energy, my love, my giving—they were not things to protect. They were just there. To take. To hold. To give. To nurture.

Now, I hold reverence for myself. Not out of ego, but discovery. I have discovered that I am something honestly amazing. Loving, rich in experience, wisdom, intention, light, thought. Unique. I discovered myself. I love myself. I respect myself. But this came only after three years of isolation, after the breaking, after eight years of giving until there was nothing left. Back then, I didn’t know.

And now I don’t even know if I did it for him, or if I was a coward.

I did an ultrasound. I heard your little heart. My heart was so happy while my tears rolled down, knowing I had already made the decision. I remember the doctor—perhaps reading my true desires on my face—asked me several times if I was sure. Each time it hurt to say yes. My mouth said yes, but my heart, soul, and eyes said no.

The abortion was the most painful feeling I have ever endured. Like a knife piercing my heart, my body, my soul. Especially my soul—with a permanent scar.

I didn’t choose us. I didn’t choose you. I didn’t choose myself.

I killed you. And I moved on—in silence. Because there wasn’t a soul who could understand my feelings. I was already lonely. But this was another door, into another dimension of loneliness. Of numbness. And I stayed there.

Without realizing. Until now. Only now, after three years of isolation and soul-digging, I can see the lesson you came to teach me. The turning point I couldn’t take.

But it wasn’t like the other lessons. This was the ultimate price. The lesson. The one I could only come to understand years later—today.

I’m so sorry. I hope you can forgive me—for both of us.And I hope we meet again.

Your mom.

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I have always believed that sharing and speaking our happy moments multiplies them, strengthens them, anchors them into reality.

And sharing our fears and pains works the other way—it is release. For kept in the dark, they grow roots of power, tightening their grip on us more than we realize. But when we bring them into the light—speak them, share them, examine them—they lose that hold. They soften into stories, into memories, into just another experience we’ve lived.

And with time, they loosen their weight on us. Until finally, we can let them go… like a floating lantern.