There's a wound that lurks in our home. Chiseled from the pain of this land. Most often it sits in silence, without the talking stick in hand. We know it's there though, readied for its time to speak. It's unwise to ever forget it. When it does rear its gnarly head, it comes to be explored and healed, a little more.

Last night it came. I became the oppressor again: More white than wife. The wound whispers in my husband's ear, "You are a traitor to your own kind, you shouldn't be with her" and he wrestles with what truth it may be telling. This is the wound that we will tussle with again, and again and again. Sift truth from lies. Tease apart the threads that fabricate this narrative, to slowly create a new story - one that works for us.

It's the first time this wound has spoken since our daughter was born. I feel acutely aware of what she might have to contend with, as a child of this marriage. A sense of responsibility surges in my belly, and it starts with the invitation to regulate my nervous system. To breathe. Can I hold this conversation and let it move to heal itself? For my husband? For my child? For our home? For the land and its people at large?

I hold her close. Her tiny body dressed in pink, she can feel the challenge cursing through us. She fusses. I pull her to my chest, bounce her and sway. Standing, I catch my own gaze in the mirror. I see the difference in our skin tones. I do see colour. I have to - to know what it means for us all. I take deep breaths, the kind that I practiced religiously through pregnancy and birth. The breath that carried her all the way to our arms. With every exhale she sinks a little deeper into a calm space, and I do too.

It's really fucking difficult sometimes. Hearing the man I love so intensely, question my motives for being with him. To let him give voice to the wound, and all the fears it plants in him. He speaks of the black community. Of feeling being raped, the rape of the land, of dignity and autonomy. He speaks of the curse of blackness and how it hurts. He speaks of what his parents went through. The atrocities, committed by people who look like me, still linger in his blood. He asks, "How can I be a Proud Black Man when I'm married to a white woman?" He questions further, whether he should be with a black woman instead.

We move through the conversations with as much grace as we can muster. Venture to bed wrapped in a thick cloud and tentatively let our legs touch, child between us. I summon all that gives me strength but feel the weight of this wound carrying me to sleep. It hurts to hold our child in this. I wonder how she'll internalize it over time and contend with her own identity. My deep breaths continue to support her, she snuggles into my chest, body weighted without tension - we co-regulate.

In the morning I awake to a smell. A distinct memory gallops through me. Her birth. Four weeks prior, in our bathroom. As our daughter's head crowned through my body, a taste swept through my mouth. After she birthed herself into her father's hands, I pulled her close. Blood-covered and freshly bathed in amniotic fluid, her scent was identical to what I had tasted moments before. Smelling this again brought a sharp message. "If you can birth, Mama, you can do anything. Keep breathing deep into it all."

The cloud still sits in our home. The wound is still weeping, speaking its thoughts. I gain deeper insight with every breath I take. Reap wisdom from the times I talk out loud to myself to support process. Like I said, when this wound rears its gnarly head, it comes to be explored and healed, a little more. I believe our soul chooses the daemons we are destined to wrestle with - this is our one.