The Birth Cry of Remembering

I remember the vastness that held me before this body, before this heartbeat, before this breath. I remember the boundless, shimmering silence, the holy, endless sea where time had never dared to exist, where every star was a note in an eternal hymn. I remember knowing everything… every current of love, every pulse of creation, every hush of belonging that rippled through the cosmic ocean.

In that place, there was no fear. The dark was not emptiness but a cradle, a velvet womb that held every possibility in its depths. There was no separation, only an exquisite unity beyond all language, a certainty that nothing could ever truly be lost.

I floated in that infinite night, unformed, infinite, weightless. A spark suspended in a sea of stars. And slowly, through the sacred hush, I began to hear the faintest echo. A vibration. A tone. Over and over, a pattern of sound that grew clearer as I drifted closer to the threshold of becoming. Those sounds, those ripples, those songs… they were my mother’s laugh, my father’s calm, the weaving of their love, calling me.

I began to know those voices. I began to love those voices. And in that love, I made the impossible choice: to leave infinity behind. I chose to break away from the chorus of the cosmos because I realized I wanted them. I wanted the taste of milk, the scent of skin, the warmth of arms, the rush of breath, the quicksilver of tears. I wanted to trade eternity for one human lifetime wrapped in their voices.

And I knew I would forget. I knew the terror of separation would tear through me. I knew the ache would be so deep I might never find the words for it. I felt that grief even before I had a face. Grief so ancient it rang through the marrow of the cosmos itself.

But still, I came.

I came wrapped in a courage forged in those star-seas, courage beyond measure; the courage of the soul. I came to love, to learn love in its most fragile, flawed, human shape. I came to rebuild the bridge between heaven and earth, even knowing it would break my heart.

And as I curled inside the watery darkness of the womb, the grief softened. Because I could feel them waiting. I could feel my mother’s fierce tenderness, pulsing through that river of blood into mine. I could feel my father’s steadiness woven through, like an anchor. I could feel two siblings already here, souls I had traveled with before, and I felt another sister, not yet arrived, but promised, the echo of her laughter ringing through the void.

I felt the friends who would meet me in playgrounds and midnight kitchens, the great love who would burn so brightly I would chase the edge of the world to hold it, the strangers who would become family, the challenges that would break me open and test me again and again “Are you sure? Is your heart still pure? Will you still choose the light?”

And I knew I would answer yes.

I began to love them all before I ever saw them. And that love made the price of forgetting bearable.

I tried to speak through that veil “I want you to nourish me. I want you to rest. I want you to see me.” My only language was vibration, feeling, frequency. And it was enough.

I knew what was coming. I knew I would be born screaming, clawing for breath, searching for something no one could name. I knew the grief would return, that I would ache for what I had left behind. And still I came.

Because there was a vision coded into me, a thread that could never be cut. I came to awaken. I came to remember the cosmic truth of who I was, who we all are, and to help others remember too. I came to alchemize the raw ache of being human, to let it move through me, to turn it into healing. I came to be a vessel, a channel, to lift the world back toward the stars, to remind us that love is the truth at the heart of all things.

And on my birthday of all days, the day I split through the veil, I remembered. I remembered the sound of the voices that had called me out of infinity, the voices that had made me choose to forget everything just to know their love. I remembered the music of the stars, and I remembered why I traded it for a single human lifetime.

And I cried. I cried like I had never cried before, like a baby born again, gasping for air, tearing through the layers of forgetting… a birthday cry that was also a birth cry, a remembering cry, a holy, broken, perfect cry that said:

I am here. I remember. I choose to love.