I love the concept of the divine yoni: of the beautiful and powerful nature of femininity, of being a creator and life-giver, and of vaginas being the very source, origin and gateway of life. I love it. I do.
Can I relate, though? Oh, hell no. Don’t even get me started on my faulty plumbing. Or, actually, you know what? Do. Yeah. I’ve started, so let’s do this thing.
Two years ago, after enduring what I’d come to learn was my first miscarriage and my last pregnancy, I found out that all my reproductive insides were garbage. I was 32-years-old, and had two ovaries floating around in my body that contained roughly the same number of viable eggs that your mother-in-law has. That is to say, approximately none.
My baby-making years had escaped me almost entirely, and it took me every last hour of the ensuing two years to come to terms with that. The fact: the child I do have— who spent 40 weeks growing inside my body before flying out of me and tearing my divine yoni to shreds back in 2013 — is a walking miracle, and not, actually, somebody that I ever had any right to just because I’d had unprotected sex with her father roughly four thousand times over the course of one particular 48-hour fertile period. (Oh, you haven’t had to try incessantly to make a baby month after month? I don’t recommend it. It’s not exactly a blast.)
So there I was, infertile in my early 30s, having spent most of my 20s gallivanting around the planet like I owned the place, too often hungover from slinging a few too many shots the night before. Shots which I kept getting for free when my best friend would tell every unsuspecting male that today — yes, this very day! — was my birthday, so shouldn’t we both get a free drink? “Why, of course!” they’d always say.