If you are carrying the loss of a pregnancy or a baby, I'm so sorry. I see you. Your baby mattered, and your love is real.

When we live through loss, or the long ache of infertility, it is so natural to leave our womb. We stop feeling her. We look away. Some of us go numb. Some of us feel betrayed by her, or afraid of what we'll find if we turn toward her.

This is a kind of disconnection, and it is the body's own wisdom: when the pain is too great, we step out of the place that hurts.

I know this intimately. For years I lived above my womb: in my head, in doing, in simply getting through each day.

And then, often quietly, there comes a moment. A warmth low in the belly. A longing you can't quite name. It can feel as though she is calling you back to her, softly, without any blame at all.

But how do we answer her? This is where so many of us feel lost.

Perhaps you long to come back, but you don't know where to begin.

Perhaps every time you rest your hand on your belly, the grief rises so fast that you pull away.

Perhaps you're afraid that if you open that door, you won't be able to close it again.

Perhaps you've tried on your own, with a book or a meditation, and felt more alone than before.

If any of this is true for you, please hear me: you are not doing it wrong. Grief this deep was never meant to be carried alone.

We return to the womb the way we return to anything precious: slowly, gently, and with someone holding our hand.

A circle of women who understand, and someone to sit beside you at the door. You don't have to know the way. You only have to come.

You won't be asked to heal, to open, or to share. You can come with your camera off, wrapped in a blanket, and simply listen.

Being here is enough.