Grieving momma.

Some time ago I read a blog that caught my attention over at Brooke Hampton’s Barefoot Five called, “I Don’t Really Like Being a Mom” by Joy Light. I love me some Brooke Hampton and I know she shares only really great and authentic people and since I also love me some taboo-talk, I clicked on it and read. 

The post was about how she loved being a mom to her little beings but that she doesn’t love being a mom, which I totally get. I really appreciate when people are real and aren’t afraid to put it all out there- especially things you’re not supposed to talk about. Some may call that over-sharing but I call it truth, authenticity, and confidence in you doing you.

She also wrote this incredible paragraph that struck my heart in the bullseye with a sharp arrow:

I miss solo psychedelic sojourns in the desert. I miss meditating on the stillness between breaths in hot springs for hours without a thread of responsibility. I miss taking off into the forest for weeks without anyone knowing where I am. 

Those words have been replaying on a loop in my mind since I read them. Those days for me haven’t existed since my eldest little one took her first breath 7+years ago. Then two more came after her. I find myself missing these days fiercely; a burning rage sometimes forms in my belly as if trying to manifest them from sheer will. But I know I know it’s not going to happen because I know it’s not logistically or emotionally possible… nor would I really want it to be. My husband and I have “escaped” for a few long days out and while we often sit in the silence and smile and remember, by the end of the day, we are missing our little ones' warmth and faces. Parenthood is all encompassing and forfuckingever. I don’t remember anyone ever really emphasizing that. It would have been nice, regardless of how obvious a truth it is. 

The thing about these words I find heartbreaking, particularly at this moment, is that when a momma needs to grieve it has to be mostly weaved into her days. I have a very supportive partner and we do co-parent full on so I have been given time to have my quiet moments to grieve things but real life always seems to rush back in way too fast. And then you sneak a cry here and you fall apart in the shower there but it's not enough and then suddenly  you just can’t get out of bed- it’s just NOT going to happen- and your kids come over, tilt their heads over horizontally and with their cute little faces ask you, "Are you okay momma?" I don't try to hide my grief usually and while I don't always share what is hurting to not make them sad, I think seeing people process and manage pain is important. It also helps to get their incredible comfort and love in the way only children know how to give it. It is the best soothing balm ever. 

But I LOVE being alone. I love silence. When I need to grieve these things are no longer a momma’s luxury but a necessity. Taking off into the forest for weeks would be so sublime right now. I can close my eyes and see it… see me running through the trees, wind on my face, the sound of leaves rustling, that delicious smell of trees and nature, and yellow bathing everything. Mommas hold so many hearts… they get so vast with love. Who can hold a momma’s heart while she hurts?

The only capable container for me is Nature. Mommas can hold so much; our hearts run so deep. I feel consoled in the duality of nature because she is honest about it…

“Here, for all to see… every day I am light and dark; I give you the sun and the moon; I am sacred and profane. I am never the same, here look at my seasons! I change every day, every month, every year... it's okay. You can do it too. I put it all out there so you can let it rip!”

It’s one of the few places left in the world where I can feel myself. 

Momma Nature.

Thank Goddess for her.