Hey Beautiful Souls,

Have you ever heard something so profound that it literally rewired your brain? Like, one minute you're thinking one way, and the next minute your entire perspective on life, death, and faith has completely shifted?

That happened to me recently when I came across this story, and I haven't been able to stop thinking about it since. Especially as someone who's been navigating grief after losing both my parents, this story was different. It gave me language for feelings I couldn't express and hope for questions I didn't even know I was asking.

The story goes like this: Picture two babies in their mother's womb. One turns to the other and asks, "Do you believe in life after delivery?"

The second baby responds with curiosity, "Of course there has to be something after delivery. Maybe we're here to prepare ourselves for what will be later."

But the first baby is having none of it. "Nonsense. There's no life after delivery. What kind of life would that be?"

The conversation continues, with the second baby imagining possibilities beyond their current understanding. "Maybe we'll walk with our legs and eat with our mouths. Maybe we'll have other senses we can't understand now."

The skeptical baby dismisses this as ridiculous. Walking seems impossible. Eating with mouths sounds absurd. The umbilical cord supplies everything they need, and it's far too short for anything beyond their current world.

Here's where it gets deep, y'all.

When the second baby suggests that maybe life after delivery is just different, that maybe they won't need that physical cord anymore, the first baby demands proof.

"If there were life after delivery, why has no one ever come back to tell us? Delivery is the end of life, followed by nothing but darkness and silence."

But then the second baby says something that gave me actual chills:

 "Certainly we'll meet mother and she'll take care of us."

"Mother?" scoffs the first baby. "If mother exists, where is she now?"

And here's the part that broke me open:

"She's all around us. We are of her. It is in her that we live. Without her, this world would not and could not exist."

The skeptical baby can't see her, so logically, she's not there.

But the faithful baby whispers,

 "Sometimes when you're in silence and you really listen, you can perceive her presence. You can hear her loving voice calling down from above."

Y'all. Y'ALL.

As someone who used to climb into bed next to my mom when I couldn't sleep, who misses her hugs and her voice and her knowing exactly what I needed before I could even ask, this story is everything. It's about faith beyond what we can see. It's about trusting that there's more to existence than our limited perspective can grasp.

Think about it. Those babies in the womb can't imagine walking, breathing air, seeing colors, or eating food. Their entire reality is fluid, darkness, and the sound of their mother's heartbeat. To them, the idea of a world with light, solid ground, and infinite space would sound impossible.

But we know better, don't we? We know there's a whole beautiful, complex world waiting for them beyond delivery.

What if death is just another kind of delivery?

What if all the things we can't see, can't prove, can't logic our way into understanding are just as real as the world those babies can't yet imagine?

This story has been medicine for my grief. When I miss my parents so much it takes my breath away, I remember that just because I can't see them doesn't mean they're not there. Just because they haven't "come back" to tell me about what's next doesn't mean there isn't something beautiful waiting.

And here's what's really blowing my mind: the idea that mother was there all along, surrounding them, sustaining them, even when they couldn't see her. What if love is like that? What if the people we've lost are like that? What if God, the universe, source energy, whatever you want to call it, is like that?

All around us. In us. Sustaining us. Even when our logical minds can't see the proof.

I think about my daughter, almost four years old, trying to understand why her "Yaya" (what she called her grandma) isn't here anymore. How do you explain death to someone whose entire world is what they can touch and see? But maybe that's the point. Maybe we're all just babies in the womb, limited by our current understanding, unable to imagine the fullness of what exists beyond our perception.

This doesn't mean we should stop questioning or seeking understanding. But maybe it means we can hold space for mystery. Maybe it means we can find peace in not having all the answers. Maybe it means we can trust that there's more love, more connection, more beauty than we can currently comprehend.

As someone who often feels invisible in this world, searching for my tribe and my purpose, this story reminds me that maybe the most important things aren't always the ones we can see. Maybe the connections we feel, the love we carry, the impact we have on each other is more real and lasting than any physical proof.

Maybe faith isn't about blind belief. Maybe it's about listening in the silence and trusting what we feel in our hearts, even when our heads can't make sense of it.

What do you think? Does this story shift anything for you? Have you ever felt that presence in the silence, that knowing that there's more than what meets the eye?

I'd love to hear your thoughts. Because if there's one thing I know for sure, it's that we're all in this mystery together, trying to make sense of love and loss and everything in between.

If you're looking for more beautiful stories and perspectives on life, death, and faith, I highly recommend "The Five People You Meet in Heaven" by Mitch Albom. It's one of those books that changes how you think about every life you touch and every person who touches yours.

Keep seeking, keep questioning, keep feeling your way through this beautiful, mysterious existence.

Keep blooming, ❤️ Itstechnicole

Don't forget to check out my podcasts where we dive deeper into topics like faith, grief, motherhood, and finding meaning in the mystery of it all.

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