I suddenly found myself knee deep in the trenches with two young boys and no tribe.
I somehow lost all my lifelines.
I have no way to identify how or when that happened.
I love being home with my kids more than anything, but I was falling into a scary, dark, isolated, and lonely place.
My mind was playing tricks on me, judging every move I made and questioning every decision. And I soon remember that although I may often be alone, I wasn’t truly by myself in this.
I remembered a dear friend who many times had held me in her light and offered comfort.
As I lay in bed succumbed to debilitating emotions I looked up hoping to find some sense of solace, of comfort.
There she was, shining down on me wrapping me up in light and love.
She is full and voluptuous the epitome of femininity. She offers a kind of silent support that I do not find elsewhere.
This isn’t the first time I have looked to her for support. Again, without a doubt, she shows up and offers me silent advice.
The first time I looked to her was while I was in bed, holding my swollen abdomen. There was a little baby swimming in there. All the uncertainty of my life came bubbling over. All my known comforts were being shaken and rattled away.
I lay there confused. What was to come? Who would I become? Who would I stay?
She looked down on me and assured me that it would all be okay, that through all the phases of womanhood, from maiden to mother and eventually crone, she was able to say, “things will always change, but parts of you will remain the same.”
The second time I looked to her I was driving around in the car with a screaming child. I was covered in boogers, breast milk, tears, and food from yesterday. Again this season of life attacked my sense of self. I wasn’t sure I was here anymore, let alone was anyone who mattered. I looked for the moon and she was gone she had disappeared.
Oh how I envied the ability to become invisible, even if just for a night. I wanted to not have to show up, to not have to be anything for anyone.
I needed a moment alone for me.
Her absence was loud and hard to overlook. That message was clear.
The third time I looked to her was in thanks. She was present in her half form. I had two babies snuggled in tightly. I was exhausted, but overcome with joy. We had just welcomed my newest son not that long ago and I was stressed about splitting attention—trying to be ever-present with my oldest and his need for validation as well as being there to nurture, nourish and provide comfort for such a small new baby boy.
As I looked up from the bed, I realized that the pressures of a clean house and making food was too much. The pressures on new moms—even seasoned ones—are heavy. Looking up at that bright half- circle that glowing brighter than all the stars, I knew I was not alone. I realized that my struggles are real and that it is not possible to be and do everything.
I had to let go and be in the moment, to be okay with contentment.
I realized that even though she is only a half-moon she is still a strong moon.
And that is enough. For her and for me.
This motherhood gig is hard. It is a never-ending cycle of giving and guilt.
It is possible to lose ourselves to it.
The moon taught me that it is reasonable to steal moments for ourselves, that this will recharge us.
She taught me that being honest and open and letting go will make us shine more brightly, that surrender to nature will in fact make us grow to our full potential.
We are able to become a full-blossomed version of ourselves, to become our own full moon that lights up a room or empowers another woman, nurtures a child, and is available emotionally to send love to others in need.
The moon spoke to me in silence to tell me I am not alone, that I am enough.
She gave me the confidence to keep going, to keep changing, to keep cycling through.
She is a constant reminder that this cycle—like every one—eventually will come to end, only to shed and start anew.
Author: Amber St. Pierre
Editor: Renée Picard
Image: akshay moon at Flickr
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