To stay with the unbeautiful, to breathe through the ache, to honor the holy work of letting go. There comes a moment in every long labor when what once held us begins to tear.Not from violence, but inevitability.The skin of the old story can no longer contain what’s trying to be born.And so it thins, it stretches, it gives way — sometimes quietly, sometimes with a cry that shakes the walls. The world calls it loss.But those who tend the thresholds know it as passage.Blood gathers at the edge of endings, carrying the sediment of what we once believed ourselves…