Time had lost all meaning within the safe, warm cocoon of my mother’s womb. Floating in the warmth and fluid, cradled by the steady rhythm of her heartbeat, I didn’t know how long I had existed here. Hours, days, weeks? It didn’t matter. All I knew was that I was loved. I was surrounded by a profound sense of warmth, safety, and connection that made me feel whole in ways I could never have imagined.

My mother’s voice was a constant presence, her soft whispers filtering through the liquid that encased me. Her words weren’t always clear, but the emotion behind them always was. Love. Pure and unconditional. Every beat of her heart, every gentle shift of her body, was a reminder that I was hers, that I was wanted, that I belonged. Her love filled the space around me like the golden light that had carried me here, filling the void where fear and pain had once reigned.

I didn’t know what would come next, but I wasn’t afraid. I was content, floating in this beautiful, timeless state of existence. My father would sometimes press his hand against my mother’s belly, his deep voice rumbling through the walls of my small world. His love was different, more solid, more like a promise. But it was there, as steady as her heartbeat. Together, they formed the foundation of my world—a world where nothing could hurt me, where I was always safe, always loved.

But that world was about to change.

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It began gradually, like a subtle shift in the air around me. At first, I thought it was nothing, just another movement, another sensation passing through my tiny body. But then the sensation grew stronger, more insistent. The walls of my world—the comforting, soft walls of my mother’s womb—began to tighten. At first, it was a gentle squeeze, like a hug. But then, the pressure increased, slowly at first, then faster, more intense.

What’s happening?

I didn’t understand. I had never felt anything like this before. The gentle warmth that had surrounded me for so long was being replaced by something harder, something more demanding. My small, forming body was being compressed from all sides, the space around me shrinking as the walls of the womb tightened around me. It wasn’t just a squeeze anymore—it was a force, a pressure that seemed determined to push me out.

Out of where?

Panic began to rise within me. I tried to move, to stretch, to push against the walls that were now closing in on me, but I couldn’t. My tiny limbs were no match for the relentless pressure. It felt like the entire world was collapsing in on me, pressing down from every direction, and I was trapped in the middle of it.

And then, for the first time since I had entered this warm, loving world, I felt pain.

It started as a dull ache, but quickly escalated into something far more intense, far more unbearable. The pressure was crushing me, squeezing my small body in ways it wasn’t meant to endure. I felt my mother’s pain, too—her agony bleeding through the walls of the womb, a shared torment that bound us together. Her pain became mine, and mine became hers, until we were both suffering in ways I could never have imagined.

The gentle world of warmth and love was gone, replaced by an overwhelming sensation of pressure and pain. My body was being forced down, pushed through a space that was too small, too tight. I could feel the walls of the birth canal compressing me, squeezing every inch of my tiny frame as I was forced into a narrow passage. My head was the first to feel it—the crushing pressure as I was pushed through a space that felt impossibly small, impossibly tight. The pain was everywhere, radiating through my body in waves that I couldn’t escape.

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I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t. I didn’t know how. All I could do was endure it, the pain growing sharper, more intense with every passing moment. The walls around me tightened further, pushing me down, down, until I felt like I was going to be torn apart by the sheer force of it.

And then, suddenly, the pressure changed. Instead of crushing me, it was pushing me forward. My body was moving, being pulled through the narrow passage, compressed tighter and tighter with every second. The pain didn’t lessen—it only grew more intense as I was forced through the final stretch, my body twisting and turning as I was pushed closer and closer to the outside world.

And then, with a sudden, agonizing burst, I was out.

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The first sensation I felt was cold—cold unlike anything I had ever known. It wasn’t the comforting, warm cold of the womb. It was a sharp, biting cold that assaulted my skin, seeping into every part of me. I gasped, my tiny lungs instinctively filling with air for the first time, but the sensation was painful. The air rushed into my chest, burning as it filled my lungs, as if the very act of breathing was an attack on my fragile body.

The pain made me scream.

It was a sound I had never made before, a raw, primal scream that tore from my throat as my body convulsed with the shock of being born. I could hear the sound, distant and far away, but I knew it was mine. I screamed because it hurt—everything hurt. The cold, the air in my lungs, the harsh brightness that burned my eyes even though they were still closed. The world was too loud, too bright, too sharp. I had never known pain like this. Every sensation was a knife cutting into my tiny form.

I could feel the wind—wind—against my skin, like a thousand needles stabbing me all at once. The air that surrounded me, that filled my lungs, was harsh and unforgiving. It burned and stung, each breath a new assault on my fragile body. I wanted to go back, to return to the warmth and safety of the womb, to escape this painful, terrifying world.

But I couldn’t.

I was here now. In this new world. And it hurt.

My screams grew louder, my body writhing in agony as I tried to make sense of the overwhelming sensations crashing down on me. The cold. The brightness. The noise. Everything was too much, too painful. I wanted to shut it all out, but I couldn’t. The world was too big, too harsh, too real. The comfort and safety of the womb were gone, replaced by this new, terrifying reality where pain was the only constant.

And then, through the haze of pain and fear, I felt something else.

A presence.

Warmth.

It was different from the warmth of the womb, but it was familiar nonetheless. Gentle hands—softer and more comforting than anything I had felt since I had left the womb—cradled me, lifting me out of the cold and into a place of safety. The touch was delicate, careful, and filled with a love that I recognized immediately.

My mother.

Her hands wrapped around me, pulling me close, holding me against her body. And even though the world around me still hurt, even though the cold and the wind still burned my skin, I could feel her warmth, her love, flowing through the touch of her hands.

Her voice came next—soft, soothing, like the melody that had carried me through the endless months in the womb. It was different now, clearer, more distinct, but the emotion behind it was the same. Love. Profound, unconditional love. It wrapped around me like a blanket, calming the storm of pain and fear that had consumed me since the moment I had been born.

I could feel the rise and fall of her chest as she held me close, her heartbeat a steady rhythm beneath my cheek. It was a sound I had known all my life, a sound that had been my constant companion in the womb. And now, here in this new world, it was still with me, a reminder that I was safe, that I was loved.

Her voice continued, a soft murmur of words that I couldn’t yet understand, but that didn’t matter. The meaning behind them was clear. She was comforting me, telling me that everything was okay, that I was here, with her, and that nothing could hurt me as long as she held me.

And slowly, ever so slowly, the pain began to fade.

The cold was still there, but it wasn’t as biting. The wind still stung, but it was bearable. The air still burned my lungs, but I could breathe. And through it all, my mother’s love was the constant that anchored me, the force that kept me from falling back into the abyss of fear and pain. Her touch, her voice, her heartbeat—they were my lifelines.

I stopped screaming. The sobs that had wracked my tiny body subsided, replaced by a deep, profound sense of calm. I was still in pain, but it didn’t matter as much anymore. I could feel her love, her warmth, and that was enough. It was more than enough. It was everything.

I was exhausted. The journey into this new world, the pain, the fear—it had drained me of every ounce of energy I had. My body ached with the weight of it all, my muscles weak and trembling from the effort of being born. But as my mother cradled me in her arms, as her voice and her love wrapped around me, I felt something else, too.

Peace.

For the first time since I had left the womb, I felt peace.

My mother’s love was still there