Feb 20 • General discussion
Encouragement
My baby who made me a mother… isn’t a baby anymore.
The little hand that once fit inside my thumb
now reaches for the door without looking back.
The voice that used to be milk-drunk giggles
now tells me stories about friends and dreams
and things I’m not invited into.
I still remember pacing the hallway at 3am,
rocking you while your siblings slept,
my eyeliner smeared, hair in loose black curls,
whispering promises into the dark
that I’d keep you safe in a world that didn’t keep me safe.
I didn’t know then
that safety sometimes looks like letting go.
I blinked between diaper bags and school forms,
between Fortnite dances in the living room
and bedtime stories with sticky fingers on my band tees,
between “Mama hold me”
and “Mama I got it.”
You made me a mother.
You gave me a name I’ll wear until my last breath.
And now you’re growing into someone new,
someone brave and loud and beautifully yours.
I’m proud of you.
And I’m grieving you at the same time.
Because somewhere in this house
between the coffee mugs, the laundry piles,
the toddler toys and the baby bottles that aren’t used anymore—
there’s still a ghost of the first night I held you
and realized my whole life had changed.
You aren’t my baby anymore.
But you will always be
the reason I became a mama.
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Encouragement
