To the One Who Stays

Dear you,

the one holding more than a baby tonight,

the one who whispers psalms into the dark

but hasn’t opened her Bible in weeks—

I see you.

The lines you try to rhyme,

the prayers pressed into your palms—

they’re still waiting.

But she won’t wait.

Not yet.

Not now.

You think you’ve paused your life.

But this is your life—

not the break, not the blank page.

The unwritten poem

is asleep in your arms.

You rush the moments,

but even the in-betweens

are sacred.

The late nights,

the milk-stained shirts,

the hours that vanish

into lullabies and shushing and starting over—

they matter.

You’re not losing yourself.

You’re layering.

You’re learning the language

of love that doesn’t clock out.

And I know—

you’ve forgotten how to choose yourself.

You’ve done it for less before.

So why not now,

for her?

Yes, some mothers leave the room

to refill their light.

And they should.

But maybe yours burns

right here,

right now,

in the middle of the giving.

Maybe you're fullest

not in the silence of being alone—

but in the noise of her needing you.

Even when your voice breaks.

Even when you cry

after snapping too fast.

Even when you wonder

if you're doing any of this right.

You are.

Because you care.

Because you ask.

Because you stay.

This won’t last forever—

but neither will she be this small,

this soft,

this sure

that you are her world.

So breathe, mama.

You’re not falling behind.

You’re becoming—

word by word,

night by night,

into the kind of poem

only a baby could write

with the rhythm of your heart.

Love,

the you who’s learning to stay, too

© Carolina Borges 2025