Beloved sister, before the temples were torn down and the songs were forgotten, we sat in circle on the bare earth. The fire burned at the centre, and the drum beat like the heart of the Great Mother beneath us.

We came together when we bled, when we birthed, when we buried our dead, and we held each other through every death and rebirth a woman's life asks of her.

The elders told the old stories, the young ones listened with wide eyes, and our voices rose together in songs older than memory.

Nothing was hidden in that circle. Grief was honoured and joy was shared, and our wombs were known as temples, holy places of creation and return.

Then we were scattered.

The circles were broken, the wise women were silenced, and we were taught to fear our own power and each other. We forgot. But a womb never truly forgets.

That longing you carry, the restlessness, the sense of searching for something you lost long ago, is the memory rising.

It is your ancestors calling you home. When we return to circle, when we sit together and breathe and sing and witness one another, the old threads begin to weave again.

Something ancient awakens in our bones.

We remember our medicine. We remember each other. We remember ourselves.

Come home, sister.

The fire has been kept burning for you, and your place in the circle has never been given away.

jenn x