I
was long terrified of becoming a mother. I thought it would mean
looking up close at my own wounds, shortcomings, ego and fear. I thought
it would mean losing sight of who I was. I thought it would mean
feeling distant from my own soul. I thought it would bring my own trauma
too close to the surface, over and over.
And truthfully, it has meant all of those things in some way. It has meant deep letting go and a huge need for self-trust. It has meant releasing the grip. It has meant looking more directly at little me who was left, little me who questioned herself, little me who didn’t know why.
But what it’s meant even more is an opportunity to learn to mother myself better as I learn to mother her. It’s meant tending to my own heart every single time I meet her tenderness. It’s meant seeing the crinkle in her nose on the left side and feeling in my cells the magic of being mirrored by someone who carries me in her — by someone I carried in me. It has meant living with someone I’m biologically connected to for the first time and knowing she’ll never have to wonder who, or where, I am. It’s meant creating healing in crevices of myself I didn’t know still needed it.
We so often think our main work is what we do for everyone else — what we give to those around us. And in some ways, it is. But I’ve felt more deeply how wrapped up our own healing is with that of the world — how intertwined tending to our own wounds, our own hurts, our own desires and our own selves is with tending to those we love — how interconnected our stories are and, in turn, our capacity to heal.
Mothering myself will always be the thing I need to prioritize so I can best mother her, mother my creative work, mother the things I’m here to make and do and be. It will always be the thing I have the most say in, the thing I can return to, the thing I can honor as a sacred practice. It will always be the hardest and best part of being a person — the part that allows me to open up to the world and really be in it — really let it be in me.
I honor all the ways we're all continuously learning how to better mother ourselves -- and how the act of doing so inevitably weaves it's way outward. 🕊️
And truthfully, it has meant all of those things in some way. It has meant deep letting go and a huge need for self-trust. It has meant releasing the grip. It has meant looking more directly at little me who was left, little me who questioned herself, little me who didn’t know why.
But what it’s meant even more is an opportunity to learn to mother myself better as I learn to mother her. It’s meant tending to my own heart every single time I meet her tenderness. It’s meant seeing the crinkle in her nose on the left side and feeling in my cells the magic of being mirrored by someone who carries me in her — by someone I carried in me. It has meant living with someone I’m biologically connected to for the first time and knowing she’ll never have to wonder who, or where, I am. It’s meant creating healing in crevices of myself I didn’t know still needed it.
We so often think our main work is what we do for everyone else — what we give to those around us. And in some ways, it is. But I’ve felt more deeply how wrapped up our own healing is with that of the world — how intertwined tending to our own wounds, our own hurts, our own desires and our own selves is with tending to those we love — how interconnected our stories are and, in turn, our capacity to heal.
Mothering myself will always be the thing I need to prioritize so I can best mother her, mother my creative work, mother the things I’m here to make and do and be. It will always be the thing I have the most say in, the thing I can return to, the thing I can honor as a sacred practice. It will always be the hardest and best part of being a person — the part that allows me to open up to the world and really be in it — really let it be in me.
I honor all the ways we're all continuously learning how to better mother ourselves -- and how the act of doing so inevitably weaves it's way outward. 🕊️
