Mothers grow humans just underneath their own skin. We love our babies when they are just a dream and when they are the size of a poppy seed. We impossibly carry on after we mis-carry our child. We can do hard things.
Mothers birth children through stretching, cramping, ripping, cutting. With pain, needles, scalpels, and bravery. We can do hard things.
Mothers feed our babies with bruised and bloody breasts, day and night, and night and day. We bounce and rock and shush our newborns while we are still bleeding. We can do hard things.
Mothers worry. Not just about the next virus or scraped knee, but about our sweet daughter becoming a mean girl, or not making friends. We worry about what our worries will be in five years and 10 years. We worry that we might do something that separates us from our children once they have grown. We can do hard things.
Mothers stay at home doing the work of raising children. The unbroken, thankless, guilt-ridden, lonely, post-partum-depression-y work of raising children. We can do hard things.
Mothers work outside of our homes. Our alarm clocks howl too early and our inboxes stay open too late, our home and work responsibilities wrestle like our toddlers, and some days our pumping equipment weighs almost as heavily as our guilt. We can do hard things.
Mothering is hard. But mothers can do hard things. And in turn, our children will learn how to do hard things too.
Kristy Powell photography
