The Mourning After Birth

Dr. Alexandra Rosado-Román is an educator, scholar, and the founder of Bámbula Studio, a space centered on Puerto Rican bomba, embodiment, and community. 

The Mourning After Birth

I miss myself—

my sharpness,

my finished tasks,

the order I once knew how to make

out of a day.

I miss the way a brilliant thought

would find me while I was teaching,

the way my mind could reach

for one thing

and somehow find five others,

connecting them

until something clear appeared.

I miss my focus.

The version of me

who could hold many things at once

and still know

where each one belonged.

I miss finishing things.

I miss myself—

the way I answered emails on time,

arrived when I said I would,

made good use of an hour.

I miss how much I loved

planning ahead,

putting things on a calendar,

believing I would meet myself there.

I miss my quiet mind.

A mind that was mine to guide.

A mind that did not have to fight

through so many thoughts

just to hear itself.

I miss myself—

the friend I used to be,

always checking in,

remembering,

showing up.

I miss an old version of me

I can barely recognize anymore.

I miss my body.

I miss the way

I used to see myself

in the mirror.

I miss my center of gravity,

the place in my body

that connected me to the ground

and let me dance grounded,

sure of where I was.

Sometimes it feels

as if all this tiredness

has killed my spark.

Killed her.

And I know—

there is plenty here

to be grateful for.

I know this version of me

does a thousand quiet things

to keep a home alive.

But, man—

I need to mourn her.

Maybe I need to mourn her

so I can stop asking her

to come back.

I miss her.

And I will always cherish

the woman she was,

the things she carried,

the things she built,

all the ways

she got me here.

And maybe that is why

I miss her so much.