Don't Let Go

I don't think it is a coincidence that this tree didn't fully flower from the time my daughter was born when it burst into the most glorious pink I have ever seen, until now, when she's just turned three.

Recovering from postpartum depression and anxiety was a long road. If I am daring enough to say, I would say that I feel recovered.

Three years is a long time.

In mom years three years can feel like a blink. And then, when you weigh what's been lost and what's been gained, it can feel like a lifetime.

People suffer. People struggle. And there is a lot of fear that can happen when suffering and struggle set in.

Every now and then I get the softest shock of panic that says, I can't do this.

I can't be her mother. Not today. Not any day.

This voice used to scream. It used to howl. It used to jolt me awake in the wee hours when nothing comforts, when nothing really soothes.

Now it gently nudges me toward discomfort. It niggles in the back if my mind when I feel tired, or lost, or imperfect.

But, like the tree when the bursting brightness of its branches were dormant, twisted by the strangling ivy that somehow was left to run amok, I still stood.

And I stood tall.

I may not perennially bloom and become born anew but I know I won't be broken or choked out of the light.

Fear is a place we visit with its own set of lies and conflicts that only ring true when you are not surround by the beauty of the sun.

We are never fully lost, nor are we irredeemable.

So, please, don't let go.