Sacred Reflection

I was once the giver of everything—

meals and meaning,

safety and sacrifice,

woven into the walls of their childhood

like breath into clay.

They looked to me with wide eyes,

and I rose like a lighthouse,

guiding, holding, smoothing the storms.

But time, that sacred alchemist,

has turned sons into men,

and the tides have shifted.

Now I walk with quieter hands,

palms open,

heart steady,

offering only what is asked.

No longer to be the center—

but to be the stillness

they can orbit when needed.

This, too, is motherhood.

Not the doing, but the being.

Not the fixing, but the witnessing.

Not the pleasing, but the presence

that says: I trust you now.

And yet, within me,

old wounds rise—

the ache to be needed,

the whisper of worth tied to service.

I meet them gently.

I breathe them home.

For I am healing, too.

Learning that sovereignty is not separation,

but sacred space.

That to love without control

is the fiercest freedom I’ve ever known.

I am no longer just their mother.

I am a woman becoming.

A soul in rhythm with the moon.

A wise root, deep in the soil,

who no longer blooms for approval,

but because it is time.

And as they rise,

so do I.

Not above, not behind—

but beside.

Each of us sovereign.

Each of us sacred.

Each of us still becoming.