Gin

Not the kind that takes you to your knees. Not the kind that strips you raw and leaves you speechless. Not the kind that lives in your body long after the moment has passed.

So this is for the ones who’ve held space for someone else’s bloom. For the parent who kept the art supplies ready. For the friend who read every draft of the book that never got finished. For the partner who rearranged life around a dream that didn’t land. For the healer who sees the gifts in people they can’t yet see themselves. For the ones still tending to their own childhood wounds while tending everyone else’s gardens.

Midwives don’t create life. They protect the space where life might emerge. And sometimes… sometimes…nothing emerges. And that is its own kind of grief. Because the dream was never yours to carry to term. Only yours to guard. And guarding something sacred that never blooms? That hurts in a way no one prepares you for.