A community of kind women who seek to uplift the spirits of others are my other mothers. It was foreign to have another female speak sternly to me, not out of anger but in impassioned authority of the divine feminine.
To my own mother there is sorrow and rage. As threads unravel I watch as desperate needles sew together pieces that threaten rupture. What carefully curated a show that must be to be run on repeat. Promises and knowledge are hollowed out, ensuring the next size lower of fashion is more secure than self worth.
"I feel that's what a mother should do, make herself uncomfortable for their child to succeed." Sacrifice is the name of the parent game. But what and why these are made usually bare very little on the parents choices, but the circumstances. Discomfort due to feeling insufficient by comparison of other women, not other mothers, is not a sacrifice but an anchor.
Yet other mothers have guided me. Cheered me on from the shoulders of life's highway as we went down different paths. Friends, ex's from over a decade ago, classmates who's mothers were part of the softball team, so many powerful women who only saw a child smothered by insecurity.
There were mothers who tried to get me help, only to be shunned away. If only the hands of time would allow thanks to them for being the only ones that saw the pain. Now other mothers approach me on the street, talk as though we are peers and share their maternal concerns. Firm reminders take place to take up space, to affirm me in this space. These other mothers raise within me the divine feminine of which is my authority to take.
