The Weaving
I sit down to sew,
and my breath slows.
The fabric hums under my fingers,
and for a moment,
I remember who I am
when no one needs me.
Then—
“Muuuum!”
Someone can’t find their shoes.
Someone spilled the oats.
Someone needs me again.
So I rise.
And the thread of me,
half-woven,
gets knotted in the rush.
I love them.
I love them so much it aches.
But I also loved that moment
with the needle,
with the page,
with the part of me
that doesn't just serve—
but creates.
Is it selfish
to long for both?
To want to write beauty
and butter toast?
Sometimes the giving feels holy.
Other times,
it just feels like emptying out.
And yet—
when they laugh,
when they lean in,
When they say, “I love my life”
when their eyes light up
because I’m there—
that fills something too.
Still, I miss the quiet.
I miss the poems
that come in silence.
I miss the stitches
that never get finished.
I miss the girl
who didn’t always have crumbs in her pockets.
God,
how do I weave both?
Motherhood
and me?
How do I love this life
without losing myself in it?
Tell me again
that it’s okay to need beauty.
That You’re not keeping score.
That even as I juggle
diapers and dreams,
You see the whole tapestry
and call it good.
Because right now,
I just see frayed edges
and threadbare joy.
But You—
You are the Master Weaver.
So I hand You the shuttle,
and trust
that somehow
You'll teach me the rhythm.
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