On meeting her for the first time I later wrote She could have been unicycling around her living room juggling flaming bowling pins and I would have been instantly soothed just to be in her company.
This was Bon, the one who's been where I have been. The one who was able to look me straight in the eyes and simply be with it, not recoiling, as I can do for her. Both our skins branded, still hissing with absence and longing and the macabre.
I've never felt quite so understood.
It was Bon who christened me and all of us medusa: the namesake for how isolating it feels to be the mother of a baby that’s died, for how you see the world after this loss, and for how the world sees you.
The six of us have gathered together to make a space that’s about more than individual catastrophe. We hope that company on this road may diffuse some of the demons, mamas ahead shining some light from further along the gauntlet. Proof that some reasonable facsimile of peace is an inchworm with a way of gaining ground.
Welcome. We’re honoured that you’re here.
Over the next few weeks we’ll be adding articles to the library and featuring interviews, links, reflections and more of everything just about every day. Read about why we’re glowing in the woods. Subscribe. Share your friends: us with them, and them with us. Tell us about your babies. Tell us what else you'd like to see, what's helped and hindered you.
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love, the medusas