I used to think being a mother was like being the sun. My internal state bursting with rays, constantly nurturing my little seedling. Motherhood felt big and important, a job that had to shine to its fullest potential at all times. The sun is responsible for life, for growing it. People bask in it, they live for the days the sun kisses their faces and warms their skin. It seemed like that was motherhood in a nutshell.
It wan’t until two years into motherhood, as I was standing in the shower watching the shower water mix with my own frustrated, broken tears drizzling down my crater-filled body that I realized I’m nothing like the sun.
I’m better.
I am like the moon.
The mother in the moon
Science will tell you that the Earth orbits the sun, and I think that’s how we all start our journey into motherhood. For a time, things revolve around you, your comfort levels, your causes and concerns. But the moment you give birth to your own little world, the orbit shifts.
Suddenly, something many times smaller than you is bigger than you all at once. You become that little one’s constant satellite. Those who once basked in your rays now turn to explore the new terrain you made possible.
And honestly, it feels OK.
Your light dims; but it truly never goes away. It’s there, beautiful, constant, and approachable.
A friend of the night
As I stumble out of bed and peek at the clock, the time reads back to me a stark 1:36 AM.
I enter my son’s room and he lets out a breath. I hear him peacefully utter “mama,” like a tiny prayer, as he waits for me to pull his blanket up. I softly rub his back as he drifts back to sleep, and I hang around a little longer. The moonlight peers in through his nursery window, and I smile at her.
While the world soaks up the sun, I’ve been growing in the night. It’s nights like these that have both made and broken me as a mother. But overall, I’ve become stronger. In the dark of the night, bleary eyed, slightly bitter, but mostly at peace, I’ve been fortifying myself into this constant present power, much like my lunar friend.
As the tides move with the moon, my child looks to me for the strength to make big strides. For now, those challenges seem small: the courage to walk, the ability to talk. But I know some day in the future, I’ll be needed for a different kind of strength. And I’ll be there, waiting, silently orbiting his world, even as I gradually move farther away from him.
In many ways, it is only I who can do this — making it forever the greatest honor of my life.
An imperfect beauty
You cannot stare directly into the sun without harming yourself. It shines so bright, you can’t make out the finer details. But the moon? You see her in all her glory. Every blemished crater, every size and shape. And you always think her beautiful.
Since becoming a mother, I have waxed and waned much like her — physically and emotionally. Though there are days I seem to be gone from sight, so retreated into myself or my feelings that I can’t be directly seen, there is a comforting power in knowing I am there.
While the sun is fun, it is fleeting. When she disappears, the world goes gray. But the moon’s absence allows for the stars to shine. There is beauty in her every phase. She shows you her process and all the while keeps a part of herself out of sight, just for herself.
Isn’t that the whole crux of motherhood? We give all we can while we can, and keep remembering there is a secret part we can hold for ourselves.
So, for me, motherhood is like the moon:
Beautiful. Powerful. And full of magic.
