They loved me

the way people rent cottages and lake houses…

staying only for the season,

and neglecting the winter months

because of the cold…

I loved them

the way trees love soil,

never considering departure,

since they were my home…

Maybe that’s my mistake.

Maybe love was always meant

to have a checkout time,

and nobody remembered

to give me the brochure…

Or maybe they can’t understand that love is supposed to be deep,

and full and forever.

Because they’ve never been taught that kind of love.

Maybe they can’t understand.

Or maybe they don’t want to.

But someone will.

I am proof unconditional love exists.

But the worst part

is that I’ve spent my life

being evidence of something

I’ve never been allowed to keep.

And still,

I wait for love

to find its way back to me

Exactly the way 

I’ve always given.

Everyone asks how the loudest person in the room is doing.

They gather around visible wounds,

carefully wrapping bandages around pain that knows how to introduce itself.

Meanwhile,

some of us have learned to suffer in silence.

We've mastered the art of saying

“I’m fine” with trembling hands hidden behind our backs.

We learned how to smile through storms

because no one ever taught us

that our rain counted, too.

My friend carries a tragedy

that follows her everywhere,

and I know it is heavy.

I know some days

it feels impossible to breathe beneath it.

But pain has never been a competition.

Your broken heart

does not make mine unbroken.

Your sleepless nights

do not erase my own.

And just because I don’t speak about every battle

doesn’t mean I am not fighting one.

You see a calm ocean

and assume there are no currents beneath. 

You see me standing

and assume I never fell.

But there were years

when I barely recognized myself.

Years when I drifted so far from the people I loved that reaching for them felt impossible.

So before you unload your anger

onto the nearest shoulder,

before you decide whose pain deserves compassion

and whose can be ignored,

remember...

every person you meet

is carrying a story

you cannot see.

Some wounds scream.

And some whisper.

Neither hurt less.

There are days

when hope feels borrowed,

And fear knows your name

better than you do.

The voice inside

will insist

that healing belongs

to everyone else...

But don’t believe a voice

whose only talent

is keeping you small.

You are not becoming weaker

by choosing recovery.

You are doing

the bravest thing imaginable.

Walking toward a life

you cannot yet picture,

simply because

some small part of your heart

still believes

it exists.

Hold on to her.

She already knows

the way home.

I’m learning that gratitude does not make a woman immune to exhaustion.

That you can love your baby

with every unguarded corner of your heart and still sometimes

want to close the door,

turn off the noise,

and hear yourself think.

I wanted this life... 

The husband.

The house.

The little girl.

The beautiful chaos of being needed...

And still,

some days I miss my husband.

I want to date him again.

I want to be two people

before we are anything else.

Some days I miss myself, too.

The dreams I had

before motherhood

made time feel different.

There was a voice I wanted

to give the world... 

And sometimes I wonder

if wanting more

means I don’t appreciate enough.

But maybe gratitude

doesn’t require silence.

Maybe I can be blessed

and exhausted,

Grateful

and overwhelmed,

A mother and 

a woman with dreams...

Maybe I don’t have to choose.

Maybe both can be true.

Once, we crowned ourselves with wildflowers

and believed magic lived in our pockets.

We chased adventures through ordinary days,

turning sidewalks into kingdoms,

backyards into enchanted forests,

and every tomorrow into a promise.

Now we’ve traded wings for wisdom,

but I think the magic stayed.

It’s in the way you move through the world,

strong and soft all at once.

In the way women like us

keep building light from ordinary moments.

And though we’ve already lived

a thousand beautiful stories together,

my favorite part of the fairytale

is knowing there are still so many pages left.

More adventures.

More laughter.

More becoming.

The little girls we were

would be so proud of the women we’ve become.

There is nothing more precious a child can have than a parent who leads by example.

The way you are patient

makes me want to be patient.

The way you are caring

makes me want to be caring.

The way you walk through difficult paths with grace and courage

makes me want to face life the same.

the way you love nature reminds me to slow down every once in a while,

to look around, and appreciate the quiet beauty that’s always been there.

Thank you for everything you’ve done,

for every lesson you’ve taught,

and for the love you’ve given so freely.

There is nothing you could do that would make me stop loving you.

Happy 68th Birthday, Dad.

I love you.