Radical self-care doesn’t look like a spa day—it feels selfish and awkward, although I remain unapologetic in this practice.

It is sitting still on a boat for one, in an ocean of emotion and unknowing, with no land in sight. I peer into the water, scrying for glimpses of my future, and into the sky to find navigation. The fish, reflections, sun, and constellations remain silent. I do not know when I will reach shore or what I will find.

As I rock in my boat, I start to say yes to serving the world. I feel the gentle hand of My Muse on my shoulder, and in a quiet voice says, “No, not yet. You have to learn to serve yourself before you can return to serving others.” 

My Muse is a jealous muse, demanding that I honor her before all others. In the commandments she has placed into my hands, my writing comes first. I will not be dissuaded from this belief, no matter how hard the boat rocks.

An hourglass sits on the edge of the boat, but the sand doesn’t move. Loved ones on the shore leave footprints as they drift away, and I let them go. In solitude, I hear the story of my heart.

There is a wildness that hums and throbs where my womb used to be. I do not know its name or nature, but I must feed and protect it through gestation. When we reach solid ground, this wildness will birth, then we will burn together in the boat, meld into one and fly.