Vessel of Light

There is a silence that grows in the heart of a mother. It lives between the nap times and the night feeds, between the scraped knees and the whispered prayers. It is the sound of herself disappearing, little by little, until even her own voice echoes in a language she barely remembers.

I fed them love before I fed myself breakfast. I combed and braided their hair when I felt like pulling out my own, and laughed when they cried so they would know joy was still possible.

But I forgot how to cry for myself.

I became what they needed—a meal, a lap, a lullaby. And over time, the woman I once was became a story only I remembered.

Still, I stayed.

And in that staying, something holy happened. I didn’t shatter. I softened. The cracks didn’t mean I failed—they meant I’d been poured into, over and over, and was still willing to receive.

Now, when I hold a warm cup of tea in my hands, I remember: I am not what I lost. I am what I’ve carried.

I am the cracked bowl that still holds water. And it is more than enough.

And in the quiet moments when no one is calling for me, I listen for her—the version of me who waited so long to be seen. She is not bitter. She is not gone. She is just quiet now, standing at the edge of the life I made.

Sometimes, I light a candle just for her.

To remind her—and myself—that softness is not the opposite of strength. It is the evidence of it.