This is my current body. At nine months postpartum, without my layers and colors, I look like I’m twenty-five to thirty weeks pregnant. I have to look at this frame in the mirror everyday, and get familiar with the stretch marks and the lumps. I have the accept the marks as part of my growth and journey. They will forever remind me of the fight I went through to keep Zuli safe inside of me. They will forever remind me of my strength. They are lines of the purest love. And I believe they are the greatest example of what life is all about. Beautiful. Raw. Unapologetic. But underneath these lines of strength, love, and life, live nine uterine fibroids and signs endometriosis.

She was born thirteen minutes after the hour on a Thursday morning. I wish I could say I knew what the sky looked like. And that it was a sunny day with scattered fluffy clouds. That the birds were singing. And beautiful wild flowers danced in vast fluffy, colorful fields with the help of a gentle breeze. And butterflies came to our window to welcome her. That I was surrounded by loved ones. And sweet melodies played in the background as I pushed and pushed and pushed. That I held her immediately afterwards, exhausted, eyes filled with happy tears. But none of that happened. I was unconscious. Something had gone horribly wrong.