As I write this article, the Feminist Conference of the Basque Country is being held in Durango. The previous ones were held eleven years ago in Portugalete. It was my first encounters at the age of 23. I remember the excitement that I felt there, listening to lectures among thousands of women, participating in workshops, marching in the demonstration and making a party at gaztetxe Kukutza.

Medeak’s drag workshop is the activity I remember most, as I was flirting with queer theories and practices. His commitment to the parody of masculinity and enjoyment at the same time was a whole jelly. Identities, body, sexuality… At that time I was attracted to these kinds of themes.

Eleven years later, I've focused on other issues, like defending dignified care. Eleven years later, I haven't been able to go to Durango, because I'm taking care of my newborn daughter.

Before giving birth, I had the naive fantasy to appear with the child. I didn't know anything about the puerperium. He did not anticipate anemia, discomfort in the spots and broken pelvic floor. I didn't take into account the recommendation not to fish for forty days, or that I would prioritize my daughter's needs and that being among thousands of feminists is not the most appropriate plan for a two-week child.

(I write that she sleeps on my stomach. You just breastfed and slept. I don't want to lie in your crib, because if you wake up, I won't be able to finish this article. But above all because I do not want to lose their warmth.)

This week a acquaintance told me that she is pregnant and that knowing my pregnancy caused a maternal desire, that she had somehow reassured the internal conflict. In other words, to be a mother, she also needed feminist referents.

The discourse of motherhood as an alienable project imposed by patriarchy remains rooted in us. It limits the autonomy of women* and leads them to make many sacrifices.

It is true, I have lost my autonomy. It's not me anymore, it's us.

It's true, I didn't go to Durango, that's the first sacrifice.

“Putting life and care in the center…”. Within the feminist movement, this slogan has gained strength. But we must remind ourselves that giving life is valuable. That it is not treason to be changing the pardeles rather than listening to the round tables. When I recognize that breastfeeding is my new profession, I am breaking the patriarchal hierarchy between productive and reproductive work.

How many mothers will there be among the thousands of women* gathered in Durango? A 10 percent, at most? The militancy times of the assemblies, subsequent potes, weekend encounters, is not compatible with the raising of young children.

I'll come back to the assemblies, or maybe not. Perhaps the AMPAs are my new militancy camps, the park and the pediatrician's consultation. It may immerse me in the militancy against obstetric violence, so that the respected delivery I enjoyed is no exception. And that's also a feminist activism.

Who knows?

The truth is that I feel very far from the days, floating in another galaxy, "one more earthquake on the alien planet," writes Ana Mendia on the puerperium, in number 2662.

The truth is, I don't want to be in Durango now. We are at ease here, on the couch of our living room, warm. You're awakening... and grabbing your chest. In my arms. On our planet.