Our Morning Light

Some days begin before the sun even stirs -

before the warmth reaches the windowsill,

before light stretches its fingers through the dark,

before the world has even remembered how to open its eyes -

she is already awake.

Already moving.

Already giving.

In the hush of early hours,

when everything else still sleeps,

she walks through quiet rooms

with bare feet and gentle hands,

carrying the weight of a hundred small needs

no one else even notices.

She doesn’t wait to be thanked.

She doesn’t ask to be seen.

But she deserves both -

and more.

There is a kind of love that is silent,

a devotion that never raises its voice,

never demands attention.

It just shows up.

Day after day.

In the packed lunches.

In the forgotten laundry.

In the 2 a.m. whispers,

when fevered foreheads press against her shoulder,

and she holds the whole world together

with nothing but her arms.

The world may not see the quiet ways she gives -

the sacrifices too small to name,

the dreams she tucks into corners,

the way she bites her tongue

so others don’t have to feel pain.

But love sees.

And it remembers.

Because everything she touches -

she touches with care.

She bleeds her heart

into burnt toast and sticky floors,

into bedtime stories with tired eyes,

into the ache in her lower back

that hums like a hymn.

And yet -

even carrying so much -

she still laughs like sunlight through trees.

She still kisses scraped knees

like she’s healing the whole world.

She still listens

even when no one listens back.

She still loves

without condition,

without limit,

without pause.

She is the storm and the stillness.

The roots and the bloom.

The hands that build a life

and the heart that holds it all together.

Motherhood -

this beautiful, holy calling -

is not soft.

It is wild and relentless.

It asks everything

and gives little back.

But she answers anyway.

She shows up anyway.

With strength that does not shout,

with grace that does not break,

with a soul made of firelight and rain.

She is the pause before the day begins,

the sigh that settles the air.

She is the song the morning sings

when it wants to remember how to be kind.

She is the rhythm of the household,

the echo in every hallway.

She is the keeper of memories,

the healer of invisible wounds,

the one who remembers

what everyone else forgets.

And today -

just for a moment -

let the world give something back.

Let her rest.

Let her exhale.

Let her close her eyes

without guilt,

without a checklist running through her mind.

Let the sun warm her skin

like it’s saying “thank you”

in the only language it knows.

Let the wind embrace her face.

Let the leaves dance for her.

Let the birds sing softer,

as if the morning itself

has bent down to honor her.

Let her remember -

in her bones, in her breath,

in the quietest places inside her -

that she is not invisible.

She is not forgotten.

She is not alone.

She is cherished.

She is sacred.

She is loved in ways that words will never fully hold.

And no matter how steep the mountain,

how loud the chaos,

how much she doubts herself in the quiet -

she will always be the best mother,

not because she does everything,

but because she gives everything.

Because she shows up.

Because she loves

even when she is empty.

She is not perfect.

She was never meant to be.

She is real.

She is radiant.

She is enough -

in all the ways that matter most.

And if she ever forgets,

let this be the reminder:

You are the heart of this home.

You are the soft place to fall.

You are the reason the light comes in.

You are not just loved.

You are everything.

Thank you for being you.

That is all you ever have to be:)