Quiet Light (mother)

My little light…

You saved more of me than you’ll ever know…

I remember the day you were born—

how everything inside me felt too loud and too quiet at the same time.

I wasn’t ready, not really.

Motherhood felt like a language I didn’t speak yet,

one I worried I’d always mispronounce.

But when you wrapped your tiny fingers around mine,

I felt something settle—

a softness I didn’t know I had left.

Still, life kept piling itself onto me,

layer by layer,

until some nights I could barely hold myself upright.

I tried to hide the storms behind closed doors,

smiling so you could sleep,

crying only when the hallway was empty.

You always saw the world in lighter colors

than the ones I carried.

And I hope you know that every time I failed you,

it wasn’t for lack of love—

but because I didn’t know how to love myself yet.

You were my quiet light

glowing in the corners of my darkest days.

If I ever made you feel like love was fragile,

I swear it wasn’t you—

just the echoes of old wounds I hadn’t healed.

You were the one thing that ever felt

steady… gentle… true.

Your father loved you in his own quiet way,

though I know you saw the distance between us.

Two people trying, two people breaking,

still holding onto the same small miracle—

you.

We didn’t get everything right,

but we tried in the only ways we knew.

There were nights

I watched you sleep and promised myself

you’d never inherit my fears—

even if I had to swallow them whole.

You deserved the kind of strength

I was still learning how to build.

If you ever doubt your worth—

come find me.

I will remind you

until the fear melts.

You were my quiet light

in the shadows of my days.

You softened the world for me—

you still do.

And if I ever dimmed your glow,

please forgive the woman I was growing through.

My little light…

you shine brighter than I ever could.