I tucked you into your bed last night, safe and sound. An extra blanket because it’s cold tonight, and a longer snuggle than normal, because I can. 

I don’t lie awake listening for sirens and explosions. I don’t have a go bag packed and waiting by the door.

Because I'm a mama, my heart feels the terror of a mama in Ukraine.

I’m not frantic to secure enough medical supplies to keep you alive while we search for a new place to call home. (This is a thought that keeps me up at night. Insurance only gives a month worth of supplies at a time, what would I do?)

I dropped you off at school today, watched you go inside. I didn’t worry if you’d be safe. If the electricity would stay on. If you’d be scared.

I’m a mama in Oregon. And so, I don’t have to worry about these things. But, because I’m a mama, my heart feels the terror of a mama in Ukraine.

Motherhood bonds us like none other. It crosses oceans. Political divides. It’s its own language, and we understand each other with just a glance. Motherhood knits our hearts together, and so today, while I sit safe in my house, I ache for the mothers of Ukraine. 

And while I feel so very helpless, I remember I am not hopeless.

And though it feels trite. Unauthentic. Feeble. Hard. I pray. I hold those mamas in my heart. I remember them. I talk to my daughter about them and their children. They matter.

It’s not enough. What could possibly be enough? But nonetheless I pray.