I was 17 the first time I cried about the realization that two women cannot mix their genes, cannot make a baby together. Already then, I knew the way I was loving Susan was the type of love out of which one would want to make a baby.

I’m 36, in a crisis that takes my whole body. I live in a community in the mountains, all around me green. I have the life I always wanted, but I cannot access the joy of it. I am afraid I never knew how to love. I don’t know how to accept being queer and accompany my desires with the knowing that a baby comes from the union of a man and a woman. And I am a woman in love with a woman who does not want to be a mother anyway. But today it hurts more that she cannot be, that her love does not make me pregnant.

All I think about is wanting to have a child. But it’s not even a thought now—it’s not a rational wanting. My lower back, my legs, my uterus hurt, but I don’t get my period.

I don’t know if I’ve ever imagined my future. I did not imagine sitting on this deck with Mielita, an incense and a coffee, reading a book about queer pregnancy and crying. At no moment in my past could I have imagined this moment as my future.

But I’m speaking of something else now. I have the impression that until recently, I saw myself becoming. I saw where I was heading. I had this drive that carried me to the end of the month, the end of the year. There were things I looked forward to. Life had a rhythm to it. Maybe that was an illusion. But in this illusion, right now, I am stripped of any clear desire.

My pain doesn’t seem to even fit my body. I’m not fully able to inhabit it. I suspect this is something different from what most people feel—and also, the experience of many. I feel closer to mental illness than I’ve ever been. I’ve been here before, actually, but I’m observing it with more curiosity. I’m in pain-awe.

The texture of what I’m feeling is beyond my rational control. I know Michela feels it. I know Manola feels it. I know Maya feels it. I know that my aunt who jumped out of the balcony felt it. And there is something about it that is unfair. Why? What did all these women in my family do to carry this weight?

I feel almost feverish as I write this, shivering. I check if I can still see the green of the mountain—and I can. The beauty is still outside. It’s the inside world that I cannot handle.

I am afraid for my partner. I am afraid I lost her. I know this pain is not hers. And it is the loneliness of this experience that makes me feel desperate. I don’t feel like speaking to people. I’m not sure what to say.

I think of my sister, of her hiding in the dark bedroom while my nephew Andrea is playing video games. He does not have this gene. I thought I didn’t either at his age. But then again, he is a boy, and it seems to be a woman thing, this thing.

So strange to be talking about a gene. I don’t even know what that means. Maybe it’s more of an energy, a cave mode, a medieval darkness that smells like humidity and blood.

Could I even be a mother with this?

I think about the materiality of things. Making a coffee. Typing on my keyboard. Making the bed—or not making it, like this morning, letting it stay undone. There’s something calming about the space on this deck. I cleaned yesterday. I still feel like there are too many objects. I want space, emptiness. It calms me down.

The incense is almost done burning. I need this smoke. I need this coffee. I need anything right now. I need to receive.

They told me yesterday in the circle: be a woman, receive. There is no one to give. I mean, there is no man I love. There is nobody with sperm to make me pregnant. My love is all there, in the edge of your earlobe, in between your breasts. And yet now I feel you so distant.

It’s not attractive to run behind someone, they told me. I just want to fall. I don’t even want to run.

I know that all the women in my family never found a man to fall with. Maybe for a moment, maybe just for a moment. But I feel that it’s been the sorority that’s saved them.

Jenna enters the deck, finds me crying to a Cunningham song, hugs me. I don’t even have the energy to add any words. I let myself cry in her arms.

This has happened before. I guess with Kirsten—my craziness coming in and looking for someone to hold it. But now I know there is no point. Right now, I feel there is no context to my pain, in a deeper sense. Yes, I want to be a mother and I can’t. But is that really the problem?

I’m not coherent. I’m redundant. I keep saying this is the problem. But when I look deeper, I find this emptiness. This lack of meaning. This lack of purpose.

I wonder if the day I die will be as beautiful as today. I see everything blurry, through tears. There is a tree waving at me. Everything is alive—very alive—but far.

I see small birds flying and I want to become an eagle. I read they see 280 degrees. I need vision, wisdom. That’s how my mom got out of it. But somehow, I don’t fully buy it—that she won the pain, the crazy gene. Her pain is still there. I see it. But she is more and more elegant carrying it.

I wonder if I just need to learn how to wear it better, this pain I hold. If I just need to become friends with it. But how?

I wish I could be there for others. Then I think it’s absurd—to want to be there for others when I am not able to embody myself.

I tell myself this will pass. But I cannot stop thinking that it will come back. What if it comes back stronger?

I know I have it mild. Or maybe I’ve just been more proactive—all the other women in my family, minus my mother, take psychotropic drugs. Sometimes they help. Sometimes not.

I wonder if I can fight it alone. If I can win. If I can allow myself to enjoy my life. To enjoy a relationship. To be in a family—with or without children. To take care. To be a mother.

I don’t want to fight. Do I need to fight now?

I light another incense. I don’t want to smoke weed. I’m far enough. I know I need to stay. I need smoke. Purification.

I think of my friends. I reached out to a few saying I can’t call but I’m thinking of them. I almost feel like asking them to pray for me—it feels a bit over the top, but I want them to think of me. I need strength.

A wave of wind comes, and the bell makes a soft sound. I think of Gaelle, who gifted me this sweet wind-bell thingy.

When my mom was pregnant with me, she told me she couldn’t get out of bed. I suspect this desire to become a mother brings me close to every woman’s pain.

It’s winter. I know I need to let the dry leaves fall.

I guess I don’t need to let anything. It’s what is happening on its own. I am growing older, and there are all these new phases. My body feels more accomplice than ever. I am trying to feel it as a container. To fold this pain inside. To transform it into vital energy. To feel its aliveness.