Once upon a time, I started hemorrhaging.

Massive internal bleeding from a ruptured ectopic pregnancy after weeks of severe discomfort and heavy period-like bleeding. Rather than nestling into my uterus, this little clump of human-forming-cells decided to stop for stay in my fallopian tube, inevitably outgrowing its improperly chosen home and blowing itself, and the tube, right out of existence as the 9 cm abscess it left behind emptied my vascular system.

It’s the fucking trauma, guys. 

After emergency surgery and physical recovery, the whole experience was really rough on me mentally… and by rough, I mean an inexplicably, devastatingly, growth-inducing kind of pain. I couldn’t trust my body to do the one thing it’s meant to do above all else, keep me safe, or the second thing, develop and push out fun-sized humans. I also learned I couldn’t trust myself to hear my body when something was wrong and interpret that message as a wailing cry for help. I spent many of the following months grieving the loss of Terminator, the most appropriate name I could devise for my self terminating baby-to-never-be. I was going fucking crazy by tracking every phase and minor change of my menstrual cycle, aching to get pregnant again but not really knowing why, then having earth-shattering breakdowns with each negative pregnancy test.

I was desperate to help people who experienced reproductive trauma. Late each night, I researched egg donation, voluntary trauma support, surrogacy– all the things. Then one day I woke up and said “I’m going to nursing school to work in women’s health.” Five days later, I took my entrance exam- the last one available to apply for the upcoming semester. 

So there I was, little sad Michaela, standing up for the ever-dreadful class icebreaker, saying, “I want to be a nurse because I almost died from an ectopic pregnancy a few months ago and want to help other women who have had similar situations,” then rambling about it for three more minutes as the room went dark from the pressure of standing in front of 70 peers, spilling my guts with little prompting. In contract, my soon-to-be best nursing school buddy said, “I’m Taylor, and I’m a dog walker.” She wasn’t a dog walker. I guess going way too deep into the feels has always been my specialty.

Months and months of break downs through make-it or break-it exams on mornings I started my period became more and more excruciating, until I gave up, knowing if I did manage to get pregnant that month, I’d miss finals the next semester for labor and inevitably fail nursing school, ruining my chances of making my misery into something beautiful.

And then I was pregnant.

And then I had the baby.

And then I was suicidal.

Fuck. What a rough time. I almost forgot how bad it was in a lot of ways.

I write to remember.

I write to heal that piece of myself.

Postpartum depression, hit me like a tidal wave, and I was drowning. School, work, babies, family– it was all so much. With poor relationships with people who didn’t appreciate my light, I started to let it fade out entirely, thinking I must be the problem. 

Nope.

With lots of healing, both with myself, my loved ones, and bombass health professionals, I began to discover my own power, finally recognizing all of the beauty I bring to the world when I let go of the expectations that weren’t even mine to begin with- they all came from the world around me, and had no relation to the me I was or wanted to become. More specifically, they came from the ones who hoped to dim my light, too afraid of what pieces of their own shadows would be revealed if I let its wild nature take over. So what did I do next?

I burned them to the fucking ground.

I took those toxic expectations, really horrible relationships, and my own shitty boundaries that let them exist in my life to begin with and let the flame of my light burn them to the fucking ground, making space in the field of ashes for repressed pieces of my self to finally bloom and thrive in the wasteland of my past. I nurtured genuinely uplifting relationships. I started recognizing my own beauty and infinite magic. I stopped doing things out of obligation and softened into the prioritization of my pleasure.

As my self-connection grew, I noticed my ADHD symptoms subsided- not disappearing, but becoming manageable. I’ve since come to learn that I am most at peace with myself when leaning into my feminine energy: nurturing self-validation, creating genuine connection, flowing into my passions, and standing in my own power. Sensuality became a cornerstone of life for me, and I fell in love with the feeling of focusing on each moment as the unique experience it offered.

This one broken, self critical, sexually repressed, and emotionally distressed little me evolved into some sort of a goddess of love and power, prioritizing passion over obligation and personal peace over people pleasing. It’s wild to me, how much has changed, both internally and externally, since my darkest hour began, and I’m so fucking thankful to share the story and my experiences with other feminine beings in hopes that they find the same peace and power through their sensual self-connection.