The Cosmic Womb

Ahhh the cosmic womb, the OG maternal cradle of love and universal connection. This last week in therapy I needed some help soothing an old tender wound. Left untouched it festers and can really do a number on my central nervous system. My therapist guided me into a meditation that landed me in the center of a nebula, weightless. I was reminded of the great love we were all born of. It was so beautiful. My over-active hot to the touch nervous system calmed almost immediately.

I’m ashamed to admit this, but I know I’m not alone—if I’m not paying attention, if I’m not actively working on myself, I can easily feel unlovable. This feeling traces back to my early years.

My childhood caregivers couldn’t always show up for me. They were young—just 16 and 17—still trying to figure out how to care for themselves. Eventually, after fleeing Germany—and my heroin-addicted, abusive father—my mom, my brother, and I moved in with Mammy and Pappy.

I was lucky. At four years old, my grandmother, affectionately and culturally known as Mammy (pronounced Memmy), stepped in. I spent every day with her while my mom scrambled to find jobs that weren’t absolute crap. If I remember right, she worked at a meatpacking plant, a lens factory, even McDonald’s.

Pappy spent his days working in his junk yard and swapping stories with neighbors and life long friends that would pass by. Mammy was always in the kitchen, cooking something up. I’d sit at the kitchen table, coloring, drawing or counting pennies from the wooden barrel. We’d take breaks to watch Days of Our Lives. I’d watch her plate up food and call the cats—and Alfred. Alfred was a troubled, mentally ill veteran Pappy had taken in, letting him stay in an old trailer on the back of the property.

Mammy would scold me, “Mach schnell!” she’d say or “Quit your gretsen.” as she’d brush my stroobly hair. She was firm with her words but so soft to the touch—her chest and arms were like the softest pillow. For my birthday, she gifted me handmade Cabbage Patch doll that a neighbor had made. She was my everything.

Then, around the time I turned six, I started seeing her less and less. She’d come home saying she was working as a nurse at a hospital. She’d bring me packets of hot chocolate and dehydrated soup as little gifts. But I was furious she was out "nursing around" instead of being with me. I was so angry - I opened one of the packets of plastic ware and cut into the doll’s face.

One day, I caught a ride with my mom to visit Mammy at the hospital. That was the last time I saw her. She lay in bed, mid-50s, her head hanging down like a rag doll. She couldn’t speak. The next thing I remember is her funeral. That’s when I learned she wasn’t working at the hospital, she was going there to treat and agressive cancer. I was seven.

The years that followed were tough. I became very small, trying not to be a burden on anyone. That survival instinct carried me through the next decade. But I never unpacked it—never questioned it—until recently, when a deep conflict sent me spiraling into the darkest corners of my existence. And in that darkness, I woke to a faint whisper: You matter.

I may not always believe it. Some days, it’s just a distant echo. But I hear it louder now. And I use my new skill—and drop into the cosmic womb - I meditate and recharge with an endless supply of celestial love.