The Void is Not Emptiness — It’s the Womb

Let me take you back to a quiet morning in March 2023 when I sat across from my therapist, a monthly ritual I held sacred. It was the kind of session that began casually and gently knocked the wind out of your carefully stacked truths. I’m seated in the usual chair, hands open, unpacking the heaviness I can’t seem to name. We were mid-session when we hit something—not new, but unspoken. It was a raw edge, a slippery place that makes the air feel thin.

She names it—The void.

And as soon as she did, I froze.

Now, mind you — by this point, I had done a lot of inner work — shadow diving, inner child holding, light remembering — but this? This one word, this vast silence? It terrifies me.
The thought of it makes the hair on my skin stand tall like soldiers bracing for something they can’t see.

I confess to her that what truly haunts me isn’t failure, but sameness.
This ache inside me, the one boiling with dreams, visions, and sacred callings, might stay floating in the ethers…never landing in my body, never finding form, never becoming real. But this is how I phrased it back then: What if the future looked exactly like this? What if none of it ever made it down into my body, through my voice, my work, my world?

And because of that fear, my days were filled with dullness.
Every day feels muted. A low-grade despair that I masked with productivity.
A little dimmer. As though I’m living inside a house with all the windows closed.

I had mistaken the void for emptiness. I had given it teeth.
I told myself it was the monster under the bed, when really, it was the dark room before dawn.

I kept trying to walk through it like a hallway, arms stretched out, bumping my head against invisible walls, frustrated at the silence. The silence scared me enough to stay stuck, and that helpless feeling became familiar.

Near the end of our session, my therapist—goddess that she is, looked at me with the gentleness only wisdom knows how to wear, and said:

“What if… you stopped trying to walk in the void…and learned how to fly?”

She stretched out her arms in a soft gesture, as if to remind my body of its wings.
I panicked. My throat closed.

“Fly? If I can’t even walk, how the hell am I supposed to fly?”

She smiled in that way that told me she already knew the answer,

“Try it. Walking never worked.”

That moment cracked something in me.

Because walking, in literal terms, meant trying to take one logical step at a time. But in the void, logic doesn’t apply. Certainty has no oxygen here. The mind tries to make sense of it and ends up running into walls.

The void is ungraspable because it’s not meant to be grasped. It’s meant to be surrendered to. The void doesn’t speak in language. It speaks in feeling. In vibration.
In that deep, ancient hum that lives between your heartbeat and the silence it returns to.

“To perceive that form reveals the void, and to see that the void reveals form, is the secret for the overcoming of death.
To the extent that one is unaware of space, one is unaware of one’s own eternity — it’s the same thing.”
— Alan Watts

When I read this quote from Alan Watts, I knew I was trying to meet the void with form, when the void was always trying to meet me with eternity.

To enter the void, you must first put down your need to name it.

And in that moment of surrender,
when I stopped assigning it shape or timeline or story, the void introduced herself.

She whispered, not with a voice, but with a knowing.

“I am not emptiness, child.
I am the Womb.”

“I am where form is conceived.”
Where time is irrelevant.
Where the first breath of everything begins.”

“I don’t lack. I multiply.” “Darkness isn’t my absence, it is my gestation.”

“I am brimming — with all that has yet to be born.” “Light is born through me.”

And suddenly, I felt it.

Not fear.
Not confusion.

But reverence.

The kind of reverence that makes you weep, not because you’re in pain, but because you’ve finally stopped resisting the medicine. I wasn’t lost, I was held. I wasn’t stuck I was suspended between what was and what was becoming. I was in the womb of creation.

The womb is not a void because it lacks life.
It’s a void because it holds life before it knows its name.

And in that moment, I began to fly—not with wings, but with trust.

The void isn’t the End — It’s the First Breath.

A baby in the womb isn’t empty. It doesn’t question where the nutrients come from. It doesn’t panic when it can’t see. It knows it’s being carried. Nourished. Loved. That’s what the void asked me to remember.

This space you might be in, the one that feels like nothing makes sense, where everything feels formless, directionless, uncertain — where your days feel like you’re chasing smoke and your nights echo with questions that your mind can’t answer, that’s not a punishment. It’s pre-creation. It’s what exists before your next reality is born.

But the mind doesn’t like the void. It says:

“Nothing’s happening.”
“You’re stuck.”
“You should be further by now.”

The Void Doesn’t Ask You to Understand — It Asks You to Empty

Because the womb isn’t defined by the one being born, it has no color. No song. No shape. It just holds. The void is the quiet place that rearranges you, not through answers, but through presence. You don’t get to decide what you birth — only whether or not you’re willing to be still long enough to let it emerge. So if it feels like nothing is happening, if everything you touch feels like air, if life feels too quiet, too dark, or too unclear... Congratulations.

You’re in the womb.

You are floating in a space where souls gather their strength before they land. You are being invited — not to figure it out, but to remember how to surrender. The void is not here to be decoded. It is here to be honored.

And the reason it feels terrifying is because it strips away everything you were taught to lean on:
Certainty, control, predictability, performance. You don’t need to “make sense” of the void. You need to trust that this space isn’t here to break you — it’s here to be you.

When you stop trying to define the void with the mind — and start listening with the body — you realize it was never a punishment. You are between who you’ve been and who you’re becoming. You are full of unborn stars.

Let this be your reminder: When you finally stop trying to walk the path the mind built, you’ll remember your wings. And when you do? The void becomes the sky.

And you, beloved, will fly.