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I am like a woman in travail,

Only, it is to my Self that I am giving birth.

In the beginning, the pangs of despair and depression

Threatened to tear me apart.

But it is easier now, and quick,

As I surrender all that binds me to my former identity.

Because I will not survive the birth,

Nor do I want to.

Like the Phoenix that arises,

Newly and fully formed,

Ready for flight,

From the ashes of its own funeral pyre

Am I coming forth,

Letting go of who I thought I was

As I am born anew.

Will there be anything of my former self retained?

A precious little.

Really only the parts of me that have always been my Truth.

But so must I allow Her to be,

So will I keep working to bring Her forth,

For, in truth, to be other than what She is

Is a form of death for me.

So, then, will I really die giving birth?

Or will I be resurrected?

Soon, though, will I rise from my travail

To gaze upon my reflection

Then to face my Self anew.