Home has a new meaning. You are someone's home.
I see you, mama, and something about you has changed…
I don't think I've ever seen you more beautiful.
You may have forgotten this amongst the throws of motherhood and the new weights of responsibility, but I see you.
Your hair may not be like it used to be, but you wear it like a crown, above your head, large and messy and perfectly imperfect.
Your hands seem different, your nails might not be the pastel colors they used to be, but they're warm and comforting, they're stronger now since they hold the world.
Yes, your heart aches sometimes, but it's never stretched and been so swollen before with love, so of course, it will ache sometimes.
You've always carried yourself well, but now you seem more womanly, stronger, yet beautifully vulnerable.
Your eyes are begging to see some darkness for more than a couple of hours at a time, I know you're tired, but they still shine, especially when you look at your miracle.
Your body may feel different, but under those clothes is the greatest gift to you and to what you've created. It nurtures, it bends and breaks. It's resilient. It's exceptional.
You may be feeling lonely at times, or tired of being at home, but you truly look beautiful here. Home has a new meaning. You are someone's home.
Your smile has changed— it's now one that knows things, secrets of contentment.
The way you sit there, holding your baby like they're an extension of yourself, hopelessly entangled in one another—I've never seen anything so perfect.
I'm just so proud of you and how amazing you are.
Mama, you're beautiful.