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The year I didn't survive
Grief and new motherhood have transformed my brain, my body, and my sense of self.
The placenta, an organ we grew together and shared, had implanted on the posterior wall of my uterus, so it was easy to see her hands, feet and knees as they punched and kicked outwards. In a culture obsessed with snapping back there’s little warning that the body is a fragile garment, an easily overstretched sweater that never returns to its original shape. She couldn’t have foreseen life now: that I’d cry inconsolably in the pasta aisle of a Sprouts grocery store because I forgot the brand of anchovy paste Jake used when cooking my favorite beef stew; that I’d feel a shocking nova of love each morning when my daughter’s little face smiles at me.
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