"I imagine a mother across the world from where I sit.
I imagine the weight of a gun compared to the weight of a child, both equally heavy, in their own ways.
I think about this mother's arms—how they must ache from holding one, or the other, or maybe from being empty.
I will wake the next morning, undoubtedly tired, undoubtedly grateful, undoubtedly undeserving of my luck.
I think about how mothering, or a lack thereof, is what brought us here. How presence, intention and compassion are as important to our becoming as food, as shelter, as touch.
I rise, exhausted from another night of sleep regression, to find I couldn't be more grateful for it. That my problems are my problems. That some pointless bit of luck tapped my soul on the head as I made the voyage from Mystery, across the lake, to my privileged existence here, now.
Mothers elsewhere, everywhere, hold a weight so unfathomable every waking hour—their children, those guns, the amount of 'fight' left in their bones.
Tonight, well after dark, I will crawl into bed next to my baby. I will forget any fear of waking her- pick her up, hold her close, quietly contemplating heaviness all the while. I will wake the next morning, undoubtedly tired, undoubtedly grateful, undoubtedly undeserving of my luck."