I Am Not a Good Friend

I encourage her in so many ways, highlight her talents, minimise insecurities, tell her over and over again ‘she’s got this!’ I’d never dare champion myself, be in such awe; have the audacity of self-belief. I willingly create space and time for her, reschedule laundry loads, and homework, make a ‘cheat’ tea. Whilst I refuse to find ‘me time’, to unwind, and just be; no matter how hard I’m struggling to make it through the days. I admire and applaud her beauty; complimenting her body often, refuting any doubts that escape her lips. All the while scrutinising my every inch and flaw, inspecting the smallest crease, mapping every lump and curve. I implore her not settle for less than she’s worth, for only the best will do, there should be no option of anything less. Simultaneously choosing the easiest path for my life, the one of least resistance that will sustain basic needs. I am that shoulder who’s always there to catch her tears, allow her to release heartbreak and frustration. Meanwhile resisting the cries from within with all my strength and resolve; so as not to appear weak. I congratulate her parenting skills; eradicating every doubt, reaffirming her motherhood. Yet lie awake at night questioning my ability as a mother; each decision I’ve made and every cross word I’ve said. I seek to relieve her anxieties, bring peace to her mind and comfort to her soul. When mine is so tortured, petty insecurities too loud to let me sleep. For her I am her biggest fan, though I’m not a good friend to me.