After my rape, I did something that, at the time, might not have made sense to anyone else—I went to prenatal care and even accepted a due date.

Looking back, I understand now: I wasn’t crazy.
I was trying to care for myself the only way my mind knew how.

I knew something had been forced into my body. Something foreign. Something that didn’t belong to me. And prenatal care, in my mind, represented care for the body—especially what’s happening inside. It represented attention, protection, and nurturing.

So I leaned into that.

Then there was the due date—February.

At the time, that date gave me something I desperately needed: hope.
It told me, “This will end. There is a finish line.”

But now, reflecting deeper, I see something even more meaningful.

February is known as the month of love.
And it’s winter—when snow falls.

Snow is white. Clean. Pure.

Without even realizing it, my mind created a whole healing language:

• Love
• Purity
• Cleansing
• Restoration

It’s like a part of me believed:
By February, I will be made clean again. By February, I will be okay.

And when I later realized I wasn’t physically pregnant, I was crushed. I thought I had miscarried. But now I understand—it wasn’t about losing a baby.

I was grieving the loss of that hope.
The loss of that clear ending.
The loss of the promise my mind had created to help me survive.

But here’s what I know now:

That meaning didn’t disappear.

February still represents love.
Snow still represents purity.
And healing—real healing—still happens.

Just not always on a set date.

What I experienced was my mind trying to protect me, trying to restore me, trying to rewrite something painful into something that could be cared for and eventually released.

And today, I can say this with clarity:

I wasn’t crazy.
I was coping.
I was healing—even when I didn’t understand how.

And maybe February was never meant to be an ending.

Maybe it was always meant to be a reminder
that love, softness, and restoration
are still mine.