Not from lack of sleep, our bodies having grown used to that by now. 

No, the mothers are tired

from holding the world’s questions in our 

burning, busy hands. 

Trying to find answers true enough to whisper into little ears without harming little heads. 

The mothers are tired

from fighting for our children,

from fighting for ourselves. 

The mothers are tired

from tidying up the world, 

the impossible task of making it a place worth the future. 

The mothers are tired, 

weary of carrying bags full of dreams and diapers and make believe stories of a world without fear or grief or injustice. 

The mothers are tired 

from a life of labor, 

a life waiting to be delivered. 

The mothers are tired, 

worn out from explaining the senseless crimes of man, the reason for rainbows, 

why the moon waxes and wanes but never grows tired enough to just

disappear. 

Put down the rose-colored glasses and stop

romanticizing your life. 

Turn your face up towards the sun, then the rain. 

For joy and sorrow are this world’s constant companions. 

And there is no failure in feeling.

Failure is found in denying.

Your disbelief, dismissing, dissatisfaction. 

Your glossing over and sugar coating. 

Your silence. Your turning away. 

Weep and rejoice with one another. 

Weep and rejoice with yourself. 

Take a full bite of the very thing offered

Sink your teeth deep—

Bitter and sweet. 

One without the other is never the full picture. 

One without the other and you will never be full. 

This is what I’ve come to know:

It’s not my body that’s flawed,

Needing to be beaten, restricted

into submission. 

Held up against others, called

into question. 

It’s not the shape I hold that needs changing. 

Not a number on the scale, 

not a bigger pair. 

It’s not my body that’s sick, 

distorted, discontent. 

It’s not my body that needs fixed. 

It’s not my body. 

My heart is the one whispering lies from within. 

My heart is what’s bent toward believing,

If only, if only, if only. 

Wanting to be more by being—

Less. 

Making idols and bowing before 

Thinner

Tanner

Toner 

It’s not my body needing to be

Corrected and taught, retrained, reclaimed.

It’s not my body. 

Honey hair,

with eyes made of mischief and secrets, 

their sticky sweetness saved only for me.

Little body full of feathers and fire

enough to move mountains,

enough to move hearts and souls,

enough to move tears down the track of my face. 

Cheeks carved hollow like their daddy’s, 

the angels taking bites before I ever could.

A snack cracker smile on special for your sister, 

the crackle of history shared only between two.

I am undone at the sound of you,

over again you push my limits within

until you are resting 

your honey hair soft and silent 

beneath my chin. 

We talk about intimacy as if it’s only just a pair of lovers held close, a tangle of sheets, an exhale of passion. 

But what of the intimacy born of being seen, known, loved. 

Found in

A secret shared and remembered.

A dream shared and remembered.

A laugh shared and remembered. 

A hand squeezed tight as you say goodbye. 

A leaned down and pulled up hug, despite you sitting in your own filth. 

Knowing each other’s families, asking after each by name

A voice whispering—I feel that way too.

A voice whispering—I could tell that hurt.

A voice whispering—I’m not going anywhere.

The one letting yourself be seen whether you’ve won or lost, failed or triumphed.

Asking again, “how are you really?” 

A sobbing call in the middle of the night, a rushed drive, “I’m coming, I’ll be there soon.”

One withstanding time and change and fights and distance, staying even when it feels like too much to bear. 

And one that will sit in the night with you, pointing to the stars and the moon. Unafraid of the dark. 

Unafraid of the dark in you. 

Wakes with laughter falling from her peony printed little mouth, 

stories on her lips of a night newly conquered,

fairies still dancing about her head,

sleep rubbing away at her eyes.

She is joy embodied. Here beside me–

 joy wearing freckled, speckled, paint splattered skin.

Joy with teeth that don’t touch.

Joy whose eyes I could swim laps in–

pumping arms and legs of joy.

She is mine, I used to believe.

But everyday she shows me–

she belongs to herself.

I am just her guide.

I am just her mother. 

And what a joy that is. 

My body takes its time to make her. 

Before I even realize she is there, she is beginning to bloom within me. Not long and her heart begins its beating. Keeping rhythm with mine.

Ten little fingers and ten little toes wiggle within. Blue eyes and soon to be freckled skin take shape in their own timing.

 My body knows exactly how to make the crooks of her elbows. I eat sour patch kids and hope I haven’t ruined her.

Soon my skin is stretched and marked blue. My bowling ball of a belly keeps me from sleeping. 

That and the anticipation screaming inside–

who will she look like? 

 how bad will it hurt?

can I do this?

  what if something goes wrong?

no, but really, how bad will it hurt? 

My body gladly takes a beating as it makes room for her growing. Organs that used to have the run of my stomach, are now stuck in the corner working overtime for two. The bladder of a bird beckons me back and forth to the bathroom, I become another pregnancy cliche. 

Forty weeks and one day it takes to form her. The world keeps turning. 

She’s here on Christmas morning. 

And by January first I’m stuffing myself back into jeans that once fit a whole lifetime ago.

My body has taken its time to make her and I have given my body no time. To recover, remake, or renew. 

I have fallen back into believing I am what I look like, 

not what I do. 

I spend my nights for almost a year in front of my mirror, tears hitting the wood floor at my feet, saying thank you to a body that took its time to make her. Relearning what it means to love the body that took its time to make her.

So that she’ll know she is not what she looks like,

 she is what she does. 

And she is the kindness of her soul, the smile on her lips, the laugh deep in her throat. She is the way she makes people feel, the brightness of her brain, and the color of her words. That she is beautiful.

What if little girls grow into women 

full of fire in their bellies,

rage in their throats.

Sugar and spice and everything nice

all a facade all along. 

And what if little boys become men

 made of more than snips and snails 

and puppy dog tails. 

Who’ve learned to let

 themselves weep, 

tell their daughters they’re proud, 

look into an eye

“I can feel it too” 

falling from broken lips. 

What if boys and girls weren’t 

told what they are 

and are, instead, allowed to show it. 

What if. 

*Originally seen on Instagram