from The Anywoman Collective®

Some mornings,
we rise like the tide—
pulled by unseen moons,
called to shorelines we did not choose.

We are the hinge on every door that swings.
The silence after everyone’s needs have been spoken.
The soft yes that follows a thousand unseen no’s.

We mother across thresholds—
cradling children with one hand
and aging parents with the other.
Our days are a long corridor of caregiving,
our hearts a house with too many rooms
and never quite enough light.

We are wives,
partners,
sometimes ghosts in our own kitchens—
our names whispered only when something is missing.
We wear devotion like a second skin,
but some days it itches,
some days it tears.

Still, we are blessed.
Not with ease—
but with meaning.
Not with rest—
but with rhythm.

We are the tether and the flame.
The ground beneath them,
and the wind that lets them go.

We pour ourselves into the cracks—
in calendars, in family stories,
in places that would come undone
if not for us.

And in the quiet moments—
the curl of steam from a teacup,
the hush after the door clicks closed,
the scent of something baking that is not for us—
we remember:

This stretch,
this ache,
this holy unraveling—

It is not failure.
It is becoming.

So if you are frayed at the edges,
but still burning with love—
you are not alone.

You are her.
You are us.
You are everywoman
who holds the center
even when it is shifting.