An Open Letter to Me,

You stand in the kitchen. You’re tired. Tears start to roll down your cheeks. You wish you could say this was the first time you’ve cried today. But that would be a lie.
You’re sad. You’re sad about all the things that you know right now and all the things you don’t know.
You were supposed to throw a fairy garden party for your daughter. You love throwing parties. Your only daughter. She’s almost 2. You remember what it took to get her here. You’ve done hard things before. You can do this. Breathe. It’ll still be special.
You stand. You stand there thinking about the moments. The moments and things to mourn. The job you love, meetups with friends, Pre-K graduation, end of school year parties. You know it’s not the end, but it feels like it.
You hold on. You hold onto the counter for support. Support that you so desperately need right now. Something to hold you up when your heart and mind feel so so tired.
You’re lonely. Your partner in this life is deemed essential right now and you’re proud. You’re proud of the hard work, but you miss him. You want him here to stand by you every step of the way, like some other families you see, but you know what that would mean.
He tells you you’re essential. You don’t feel essential. You’re grasping for things that make you feel essential. Completion. Progress. Accomplishment. What are those things now? Is it the dishes? The laundry? The messes that I clean? Is it the school work that gets done by my kids? You know it’s important. That you’re doing important work. You love them. But still, you mourn your “essential”.
You go. You go rock your daughter to sleep. For one of the last nights before she turns 2. She looks up at you. With eyes that only see her mama. She doesn’t see the pain. The heartbreak that you’re feeling. She sees love. She sees warmth. She sees you.
You remember. You remember who you are. You know you’ll have days like this again. Maybe even tomorrow. And the waves will keep coming. You’ll fight. You’ll look for the joy. You’ll even find some. But you know that it’s also ok to admit the broken and hard parts through all of this.
The strength that you’re going to come out with on the other side. You must push through. So you stand. You stand in the kitchen and cry. And then you dry your eyes and remind yourself who you are.
Rebecca Roses

4 thoughts on “An Open Letter to Me,

  1. The Fillman Four says:

    Oh Rebecca… THIS. This right here. Finding a new sense of essential or accomplishment has been so so tough. I’ve lost it more times than I want to admit. Lost it in front of the kids, in my head, in the privacy of my closet, in the shower. KNOWING this will pass. KNOWING we do not serve a God of fear. KNOWING that what happens in my home is all that matters right now. You’re not alone. None of us are, we just don’t talk about it. Miss your face!! xoxo

    Liked by 1 person

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