Grateful heart, I roar.

Infant muse, I roar.

Humbled flesh, I bow.

I cling to the reckless anger that I deserve to own this space; to inhabit this pre-birth giddiness and joy, regardless of my other child or my life’s demands—of my heart’s other demands.

I roar.

I pensively bleed in preparation.

I roar.

I tighten and cramp in rehearsal.

I roar.

I sing. I breathe. I meditate while holding my swelling belly in thickly veined hands.

I roar.

I put my foot across the line of appropriate—I dig my heels into this space without fear; without care; without guilt that I’m not staying within the confines of my feminine place.

I roar.

I cartwheel for what tomorrow could bring, I roar.

I crank up the stereo, I roar.

I spin my restless legs with headphones blaring, I roar.

I thump and groove my head to rhythms from tiny earbuds, to big bass and rich voice—I illuminate my heart-space with music.

And I roar.

I feel the pounding, driving need to purge from my life that which I don’t need—those who I don’t need.

I roar.

I collect fragile memories and emotional souvenirs and am reborn as a mother.

I roar.

I spin my legs around the un-moving bicycle as haunting lyrics pierce my goose-bumped soul.

I roar.

I stand in my lioness strength—I pivot around this defining internal shift of muted woman to violent heartbeats, in ready anticipation of bringing another female into this waiting world.

And I roar.

And I roar.

And I quiet.

And I slow.

And my legs stop circling and my heart stops racing and I invite this overwhelming sensation of commanding power to settle within my tender tissues.

And I roar.

I roar.

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Editor: Renée Picard

Photo: Flickr/Rebecca.