I Am Someone’s Baby, Too

I was rocking my child to sleep

when it hit me—

I am someone’s baby, too.

Somewhere,

my mother remembers

the weight of me in her arms,

the rhythm of my breath on her chest,

the same way I memorize

the shape of my child’s lashes

in the dim glow of nightlight.

I call her sometimes,

not to ask for advice,

but just to hear the tone

she once used

to soothe the storms in me.

She asks how I’m holding up,

and I say “good,”

even when the dishes are loud in the sink

and the silence is louder in my bones.

Because now,

I’m the one doing the rocking.

The singing.

The surviving.

But some days—

some very ordinary days—

I ache to crawl back

into the arms I outgrew.

To be small

without shame.

To rest

without earning it.

I parent,

while still longing

for the soft certainty

of being someone’s child.

Maybe that’s the ache

they never tell you about—

the double pull

of giving everything to someone

while still quietly needing

to be held.

And maybe

we don’t outgrow that need.

We just learn

to offer what we miss most.