From the Anywoman Collective®

We used to rush in.
Now we wait.

It takes a different kind of strength
to stay quiet
until summoned.

To hold the knowing,
the warning,
the deep ache—
and offer none of it
unless asked.

We see them move toward trouble,
and we do not raise our voice.
We’ve learned it will not be heard
until it is needed.

And so—
we stay lit.
Not loud.
Just constant.

We are no longer the map.
We are the landmark.
Fixed.
Steady.
A point they can return to
after the storm
has made its case.

They are learning now
what we already know—
that the world is indifferent.
That some destinies cannot be undone.
That pain will come,
and it will not always make sense.

And we—
we let them learn.
Even as it shreds us.
Even as we could fix it
if only we were allowed.

We mother now with restraint.
With reverence for their autonomy,
and grief for what it costs them.

We no longer shape their story.
But we bear witness.
And when they come—
if they come—
we open the door without a single I told you so.

We hold them again,
not because they are small,
but because we are strong.

We are the lighthouse.
Not to prevent the shipwreck,
but to be visible
in the aftermath.