Why I Wrote The Sacred Womb

I did not plan to write this book.

It came to me like a whisper in the dark, a pulse beneath my skin, a dream echoing through the hollows of my bones. It arrived in the quiet hours when the world was asleep and my womb was speaking. It emerged through my body long before it came to the page — in blood, in milk, in grief, in silence.

The Sacred Womb was born not just from inspiration, but from initiation.

It began in the raw spaces of motherhood. When I gave birth on the Aries New Moon, I felt fire move through me — fierce, ancient, untamed. Yet amidst this primal power, I also met the deep loneliness of the postpartum cave. The rupture of becoming a mother during the stillness of a global pandemic. The ache of not having my own mother by my side. The cold absence of ceremony in a world that forgets how to hold women through their most sacred thresholds.

I bled. I cried. I softened. I unravelled.

I found myself pouring milk through machines instead of into the mouth of my child. My breasts wept, not just with milk, but with mourning. Mourning the loss of the old self. Mourning the ancestral stories that lived within me. Mourning the forgotten rites of our womb-bearing lineage.

But even in the sorrow, something stirred. Something ancient.
A knowing older than language.
A rhythm older than time.

I began to hear the voices of the women before me — my mother, my grandmothers, and those whose names are only carried in the wind. I saw how their stories lived in my womb. Stories of suppression, silence, resilience, longing, love. I saw how their unspoken pain had shaped my own becoming.

And I knew then. I had to write.

Not just for myself, but for them.
For the mothers who never had a voice.
For the daughters carrying invisible burdens.
For the wombs that have been dismissed, misunderstood, or forgotten.

I wrote The Sacred Womb because the womb is not just an organ.
She is a temple. A portal. A storyteller.
She holds the memory of our ancestry, the rhythm of our cycles, the fire of our creativity, the waters of our grief, and the soil of our becoming.

I wrote this book as a reclamation.
As a return to the sacred.
As a ceremonial weaving of body, blood, breath and bone.

Each chapter is a spiral, a petal, a drumbeat — a remembering.
Of rites long buried.
Of feminine wisdom rising.
Of the power that pulses within us all.

I wrote it so that no woman need walk alone through her initiations.
So that we may remember what it means to be held by ritual, rhythm and reverence.

The Sacred Womb is not just a book. It is a living offering. A thread between us. A vessel for ancestral healing, elemental connection and feminine awakening.

It is my heart.
It is my story.
It is my womb’s voice, made word.

And now, I offer it to you.

To receive the sacred pages, enter the portal here.