The body warns you before the mind is ready to accept it.
I learned that the hard way.
The nausea doesn’t come as violently as it did in the first weeks, but it’s constant, insistent, like a quiet reminder that everything I’m feeling isn’t just emotional. It’s physical. It’s chemical. It’s life growing while the world tries to pull the ground out from under my feet.
I’m sitting on Marco’s cabin couch, wrapped in a thick blanket, while Rosa moves around the small kitchen with a calm only she seems to have. There’s something about the way she chops vegetables, stirs a pot, tastes the broth, that feels grounding. As if the simple act of preparing food is her way of saying that, no matter how chaotic things get, some things are still solid.
— You need to eat a little — she says, without pr
