There has to be a word sharper than love and sideways of grief.
A word heavier than prayer and stronger than any grace I’ve ever known before.
A word for when you could break but you will not.
A word for how deeply you can root yourself in new beliefs. In gentler patterns. In trusting the most gentle side of your instincts even if you’ve never known them before now.
A word for when you simply need love to be breathed into your child and back at you.
A word for the kicking and screaming and hard moments when you don’t walk away as much as you’d like to run.
A word for turning adrenaline and frustration into a slow breath in and out until your child can match it too.
A word for when just simply crying with them would be easiest, but you manage to find better ways.
A word for when you have just ever so faintly lost faith that they love you but won’t let them wonder the same about you.
A word for when you know it will be okay.
A word for the stillness.
A word for knowing I held you when you needed it.
A word to know I won’t hold the feeling you couldn’t have known your words would stir up.
A word for knowing we did our best when it felt the worst.
A word for the return of joy.
A word for the toddler years.
