We locked eyes and I remember thinking: Oh—There you are. I know you. I knew right away, this wasn’t the first time we’d met. We’d been here many times before.
We named her Lea Luna. Lea for me. Luna for the moon that brought her here and also for Andrea; for the light that follows us even in the dark.
Looking down at her, I knew: it was true, what the shaman had told me. Birthing her was a new beginning and, at the same time, a shedding of all that was old. Her very existence was healing generations of pain I’d been carrying throughout my life. The life purpose I had thought was heavy now felt like the most natural thing in the world. I would do it all again. For her, I’d do it all. My whole life, I’d been so worried about having a baby, about passing on a pain carried through generations. Looking at Lea Luna, I realized I could rest, knowing she would never carry pain that wasn’t hers—how could she? Nothing dark could ever attach to her. She is all light.
In her sleep, she smiled. I held her closer, smelling the top of her head. Strange, I thought. She even smells it. She smells like light.
She did. Still does. She smells like the full moon.
In the recovery room afterward, I reached for my phone. The last time I was in a hospital bed the number I dialed was Andrea’s. She never answered. Now, in a different hospital and another life entirely, my mother picks up right away. She is crying. “Is everything okay? Is she here? Are you alright?” “We’re great,” I say. I look down at my daughter, laying peacefully in my arms. “Lea, meet Mormor.” Through my tears, I can’t stop smiling.
We go home and it’s not until later, when everything is quiet and we’re in bed and Dennis is sleeping and I’m holding our little girl in my arms that I’m able to take it all in. We made it. We made it here. I look down at our perfect daughter. She has fallen asleep with her chubby little cheek pressed against my arm, right on my tattoo that says “I believe in the good things coming.” Andrea and I had that song, “Black as Night,” on repeat and danced to it more times than I could count during our last days together. She chose the color of her bridesmaid’s dress with the song playing in the background. Throughout the last years I’ve played it obsessively, wanting so badly for the words to become true. I wanted to believe in “the good things coming, coming, coming”—for there to be a life after her death. I wanted to believe things were going to be okay. When I walked down the aisle, the tattoo had just begun to heal and tiny flakes of black ink and skin were falling off my arm, scattering in the wind.
Now here we are, three years later, Lea Luna resting her head on the very same spot. I look down and, just then, in this moment, it dawns on me:
The good things came.
EPILOGUE
March 10, 2019
I’m sitting on the edge of your grave, my bare feet dangling in the empty space that’s now filled with dirt and flowers and also your ashes, and the thought of that being true is more than my heart can grasp. You’re dead. It’s been years but I still don’t understand it. Your sister is sprinkling glitter over your urn—a small wooden box that’s filled with what was once your body—which we’ve placed on a little platform six feet below. The glitter is golden and it’s spreading everywhere, twirling over my feet, making everything glow with light. Today is the five-year anniversary of your death. Five whole years have passed since the day you left and took so much with you. I missed your first funeral because I was in the hospital recovering from the surgery I had to have because someone decided that your dying meant something had to get cut out of me, too. Doctors I didn’t know tried to cut the part of you that’s entangled with my being out of my stomach, but they didn’t succeed. I have the scars, and even looking at them now, I’m not sure what you were trying to tell me then other than that you were dying and it hurt and you needed me to feel it with you. I thought the pain would kill me but it didn’t. It killed you. And now here we are.
It’s been five years and your ashes have been on your mother’s bedside table this whole time. She can’t let you go. None of us can. I don’t think we’re supposed to. I close my eyes and I can see you dancing. You are always dancing. It’s so vivid, so real; if I reach my hands out in front of me I can almost touch you. I open my eyes. Your sister is here. Your mom. Your aunt. Your cousins. Your closest friends. There is so much left here. We are all left, here. I wonder if you see us.
There is a tree above your grave. It’s the same kind of tree that suddenly came to life after we buried Pepper; a cherry tree. Except this one is alive already; it’s been waiting for you all this time. I drop a yellow rose into your grave and it lands right next to your urn but it remains standing, leaning against you. I look down at my feet. My toes are painted yellow, your favorite color. I feel a wave coming—a big one. It’s been five years and still grief takes me by surprise. I’m about to let it take me when, suddenly, everything lights up. The grave, the flowers, my feet, your ashes. The sun has come out from behind the clouds and now everything is shining. I watch the glitter scatter over the earth and remember all the times since you passed that I’ve felt you here with me. You are the light that bounces off my wedding ring in the midst of a panic attack on a plane. You are my husband’s arms, picking me up off the floor. You are the space between my grandmother’s breaths. You are my dog who died, and it was nobody’s fault. You are my friends, holding me, waiting for the waves to pass. You are my mom, loving me infinitely. You are my daughter, pointing at the moon, smiling at the sky like she has a secret.
You are the light that glitters across the ocean as the sun sets.
Thank you. For everything. For the time we had together. It was short, but it was just enough.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I wrote the first words of what would become the book you are now holding in your hands sitting on a dock looking out at the ocean, my stomach wrapped in bandages. It was my husband, Dennis, who told me earlier that day: don’t dwell in the dark. Go sit in the light and talk to her. So I did. I sat down in the light of the setting sun, notebook in my lap, and I started writing. Every word I’ve written since then has come as a result of his unwavering support. It would take me five years to finish this book and I never in a million years would have been able to do it without him. Dushi—I love you so much. Thank you for everything.
To the many, many people, who have supported me from afar and who continue to cheer me on. To my students, who are also my greatest teachers. To every single person who listens to the podcast, follows my journey online, and who reads my words every day: thank you. From the bottom of my heart, I am forever grateful for this community and for the magic it continues to create at every turn.
To my editor, Lauren Spiegel, who believed in this book even when I didn’t. Thank you for the countless hours spent pouring over these pages and for continuing to remind me that it was a story that needed to get told.
I owe a big thank you to my dear friend and agent, Rob Koslowsky, who’s been there since the very beginning. You’ve supported me since long before it made any sense—I am so thankful for your presence in my life. It’s almost time to retire! The Caribbean awaits.
To Angela Rydén, our saving grace, for steering the ship that is Yoga Girl® as I spent months putting everything else aside to finish this book. Without you, I wouldn’t be here, writing these words. I am forever grateful for your heart, your dedication, and your hard work. Thank you for giving me the gift of structure and peace of mind so that I can continue doing what I do, every day.
To Olivia and Daniella, for holding my hand and for guiding me throughout it all. Without you, I would never have been able to put the pieces of my broken heart back together. Thank you for showing me the meaning of sisterhood, every day. You are the stars that light up my universe. I love you more than I could ever put into words.
I want to thank the friends who were there in the hard moments, the beautiful moments, and the wonderfully mundane ones in between. To Rose, for reminding me to breathe and helping me see the light. To Jessica,
who brings sunshine wherever she goes. To Mathias, who is far away but always close. To Laura, who might be little, but has the biggest heart I’ve ever known. To Jen, who always tells it like it is. To Mikaela, for helping me notice the signs. And to Pati, who always gets it. I love you so.
To Jess and Courtney, the best assistants I’ve ever had. My life would be so gray without you! To Margaret Riley King, my literary agent, for connecting the dots and helping me make this book a reality. To Amelie Rehnvall for being a rock and for holding down the fort for so long. Many chapters of this book were written thanks to her. To Robin Gaby Fisher, thank you for your guidance and help in getting this book across the finish line.
To Maja and her little mountain. To Ash and Pumpkin. To Mignon, Ashley, Josh, and Lindsey: I love you.
To Luigi and Josh, Topsy and Bushman, for being the glue that holds our family time together. To Shubhaa, who changed my life, and to Talib, who has taught me so much. To Rafia, for giving me the tools to let go and for helping me write about it.
A Doña Patricia, Juliana, Luisa, Sebastian y Doña Magali—gracias por todo. Son mi segunda familia, mi segundo hogar. Siempre los amare.
The biggest thank you to Ludvig, Katja, Hedda, Emelie, and Maia. You have my whole heart. To Niklas and Mikaela, and the little one on the way. To my grandparents and their parents, too. To my aunts. To Marianne and the many strong women who paved the way long before I was born.
To my mom and dad, who are now Mormor and Morfar; the best parents I could have ever asked for. I love you infinitely. Thank you for giving me the perfect balance of the gifts and challenges I needed to get to where I am today. Thank you for giving me life, for loving me so, and for parenting me the way no one else could have. I wouldn’t change a thing.
And finally, to Lea Luna. My little moon. I didn’t know it but I waited for you my whole life. Thank you for choosing me to be your mom and for picking the perfect moment to arrive.
More from the Author
Yoga Girl
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Swedish native and New York Times bestselling author Rachel Brathen is a world-renowned yoga instructor who teaches workshops and leads yoga retreats around the globe. Find her on Instagram: @yoga_girl and at www.yogagirl.com.
FOR MORE ON THIS AUTHOR:
Authors.SimonandSchuster.com/Rachel-Brathen
SimonandSchuster.com
Facebook.com/GalleryBooks
@GalleryBooks
ALSO BY RACHEL BRATHEN
YOGA GIRL
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.
ISBN 978-1-5011-6399-9
ISBN 978-1-5011-6400-2 (ebook)
To Love and Let Go Page 26
