Motherhood is not a straight line. It is not always a choice.

Sometimes it’s a calling.

Sometimes it’s a storm.

Sometimes it’s a quiet ache that turns into a roar. But it is never passive.

It pulls you in.

It shapes you.

It demands everything and then asks for more.

I mother with intention.

I mother with presence.

I try to stay awake to it all—the loud, the quiet, the chaos, the stillness. I track the goals. I honor the moments.

I speak the truth into my children’s bones: You are seen. You are loved. You are incredible. Every day I say, “Thank you for choosing me.” And I mean every word.

Motherhood has wrecked me and remade me. It has exposed the parts of me that break too easily, bend too often, or disappear in service of everyone else. It taught me how much I need boundaries. How much I need breath. How much I need me.

I live in the space between who I was, who I am, and who I am still becoming. I live in the breath between generations—catching my breath in the middle of wild, wheezing laughter.

What keeps me SANE? Sisterhood. The sacred. The strange. The fierce. The ones who know the weight and the wonder. Motherhood shrinks your circle—and expands it with fire. It makes you discerning. It makes you desperate. And in that sacred chaos, my women give me what I need: wings, a mirror, a map, and sometimes a holy slap to the face.

And still—I would not give it up. I would not trade it. I would never take it back.

Come for mine. Catch me outside.