The labor quiets, but the tending remains. We gather the pieces, wash the blood from our hands, and learn how to nourish what’s come through. After every great labor comes a silence that hums.The air feels different — dense with memory, tender with awe.We have seen the light break through, and yet, something still asks to be born:the completion. No one tells you how holy this part is.How much wisdom lingers in what the body discards.The world calls it waste; the wise call it offering.It is the final surrender — the letting go of what once carried life. I feel…