Silenced interior leiomyomas.

The uterus; mother of all. A revitalising, prenatal oeuvre and chamber of nurture. Many would consider processes associated with the uterus as "girl problems." Within me, endometrial lining conquers the outside of my womb. Concealment under covers and suppression through pills are the only things that encourage comfort. As a woman with a "wandering womb" which flourishes outside of itself, I find it bothersome that our issues are natural but yet, so misconstrued and shaped into impersonal subjects.

“It’s that time of the month”

Shameful.

“Somebody’s got their period”

Too real.

We are not ungraceful because we bleed.

Life starts in blood.

March marks the start of surgical alteration upon that of my mother's womb. Her body being home to an organ associated with the means of bearing children has led her to this point. She, like many other women in the world, is expected to be undeniably strong and considerate to the point of becoming selfless. No matter what she endures, she is expected to be as strong willed and perseverant as she can be. For years of her life, she has faced ongoing internal destruction. Blossoming, her body has become ground for rooted deep fear of the unknown. Yet, despite struggling through a life of harrowing pain and dismay, she has always offered nothing but a radiant smile and benevolent kindness to those around her. She is copiously warm, strong and the bravest person I know. Our decisions bear such fragility. Impermanence, love, persecution, every moment is fleeting. My mother struggles with the transience of life. Yet, she effortlessly portrays contentment in everything she partakes. She is my greatest inspiration and by far the best friend I have ever had. She keeps me afloat.

At six years old, the teddy bears in my room were to me, what the sun is to plants. They offered me promise and peaceful growth. Wrapped around the premises of our Sydney based house, an emerald fence offered me reassurance as it marked familiarity. My time was spent in imaginative worlds, building homes for every fairy in need, examining bugs and collecting flora. Dirt became the skin I lived in. No matter how grubby I was, or how many times I finger-painted entire walls in our house, my mother was there, always ridding me of the mess I made. In the time that I was a child, there was inevitable solace when enclosed in my mother's embrace. She was ease, I could be myself around her. No doll or emerald fence offers the security my mother does. From the young age of six years old I manifested a stronger sense of belonging and connection with my mother.

After my father left, my mother was shattered. Reverberating voices followed by flailing arms, detested the pathway in front of our home. Permanence reigned uncertain. There was a sense of not knowing what would become of my mother and I. Left alone, she had to take care of me. In this process she almost lost herself to a battle with depression. Many societal storms raged around her, they were continuous, monotonous, and they crashed and etched away at all that she was. She became weathered, but yet she always tried for me.

Soon after my father's disappearance, my mother mistakenly found another perpetrator. Somebody quintessential to only himself. His tone, his uninvited presence and the terror and trepidation of his footsteps rattled the very bones of four bodies that had no choice but to live in shared space with him. There have been years of infringed laws in these four walls. Sticks and spoons and tears and rooms. We hold onto days, fragments of time that glimmer. Moments where we are not oppressed by his shadow. In our home, the term woman has been plagued with negativity and re-appropriated as an insult. Spoken in disgust by a monster who is a master of his craft, I live for a beginning, a future in which my mother takes pride in being a woman.

Forgive me the wisdom

I would not learn from you.

- G. Harwood

In my teenage years I became defiant, as you do. There have been many times I mistook my mother's inevitable love for granted. As stated by Gwen Harwood "forgive me the wisdom I would not learn from you", my early relationship with my mother is represented. Not once had I stopped to consider everything she has done and the purpose behind it all. Each decision, every action, they were all for my sake. When I was feeling rebellious, she would support me, she helped me dye my hair, she assisted my need to keep up with trends, she let me experience independence. Without her help and interaction, I would not be the person I am today. There are many years I regret my actions towards her. It's easy to be blind-sided towards your loved ones as you live, breathe and spend all, if not most of your time with them. Reflection is important, inspiration grows in places you'd never have imagined.

It is not for my children I walk

on earth in the light of the living.

It is for you, for the wild

daughters becoming women

- G. Harwood

As my mental health worsened, my mother encouraged me to let go, release myself from the safety net of my bedroom and to interact with her friends. Whenever near them, many discussions arose revolving women's health and their struggles. As a child, I had no capacity to understand what was being said. Later reflection highlights that these small moments influenced me. Through simply hearing the thoughts of different women, I was made to feel less alone. Their openness encouraged me to vocalise and to have strength. Many women trudge through life as carriers to abundant problems, most of which are yet to be researched or become discarded. When we express, social understanding and acceptance is encouraged.

Copious women in my life inspire me, encourage me, guide me. Grandmothers, mothers, daughters. Their knowledge has granted self-discovery and unveiled my place in the world. When I consider women that inspire, my mind evaluates millennia.

We are all:

Meaningful,

Eloquent,

Stirring.

We are women,

And women inspire women.