When I speak to motherly women, my anxiety pours out because I have rarely had that type of intimate interaction with my own. I become so internally vulnerable. I want to crawl into this unknown woman’s womb, land on my knees and beg for entry. Let me in. But the words never leave my lips and my anxiety hides behind smiles and giggles.
I want to close my eyes and be cradled. I want another chance at love. I don’t want to see a mother who is hurting anymore. Carry me, please. Accept my grimy request. Birth me and make me yours. I crave a mother. Hug me. Hold me. Cradle me. Make me laugh. Take my heart and make me alive again. Nourish me.
Those days are so strong.
Yet to be honest, those days are few.
Most days I am my mother’s mother, her caretaker, her support. I crave to feed her love on all levels and hope to exceed in my generosity towards her. Most days I find strength and a lioness roars within me to sustain balance. My faith unwavering, my ability to stand in place when all the world is moving chaotically around me is profound, even before my own eyes.
I don’t usually give myself credit, but I know I will be a great mother to my kids. I will be a positive role model; passionate towards their understanding of the world. I will teach them resilience, honesty, bravery, compassion, creativity, and how to love.
I commit to the effort.
And now say: insha Allah.