Motherhood is holding on, and then one day letting go

It’s holding on.
To time that’s already passed,
To tiny arms around your neck,
And to little legs around your hips.
⠀
It’s holding on.
To worry and hope in one breath,
To the little things that they’ve outgrown,
And to the moments of being their world.
⠀
It’s holding on.
To what was, what is, and what could be,
To the edges of the hard days,
And to the easiest love you will ever know.
⠀
It’s holding on.
To your partner and your friends,
To photos and tattered toys,
And to memories you fear you may forget.
⠀
It’s holding on.
To so much guilt,
To a heavy load which shakes you to your core,
And to expectations of what you “should” be.

It’s holding on.
To your sanity,
To pieces of your former self,
And to a new version of you, both of which they have parts of.
⠀
It’s holding on.
To new skin and old jeans,
To unrealistic ideals and pressures,
And to a former reflection that won’t let you let go easily.
⠀
It’s holding on.
To what serves you as a family,
To what you know you need to work on for them,
And to the fragments of your mothering that doesn’t deserve a grip.
⠀
It’s holding on.
To firsts and lasts,
To moments of magic in the mundane,
And to an ache of loving so deeply.
⠀
It’s holding on.
To them,
To your partner,
And to yourself, in that order.
⠀
It’s holding on.
To this intensely beautiful connection,
To this fleeting chapter,
And to this new life which will leave you wanting to hold on forever.
⠀
It’s holding on.
So desperately that you feel weak all over,
So tight that your knuckles turn white,
So vulnerably that your heart feels exposed.
⠀
It’s holding on,
And then one day letting go.”

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