Letters to the mothers I've been
I've lived many seasons of motherhood. These are the letters I wish someone had written to me in each one. Maybe one of them is for you.
A LETTER TO THE MOTHER I WAS
To the young mother I was
Dear you,
You think everyone can tell you're not ready. They can't. And even if they could, ready was never the requirement. Love was, and you had that before you had anything else.
You will make mistakes you'll replay for years. Let me tell you now: your child won't remember most of them. They'll remember that you came back, every time.
Stop apologizing for being young. You are learning in public what other people get to learn in private, and that takes a courage no one gives you credit for.
Be gentle with yourself. You're raising a child while you're still growing up, and you're doing both at once.
Cynthia
A LETTER TO THE MOTHER I WAS
To the foster mom, on the first night
Dear you,
A child you've never met is asleep in your home tonight, and you're lying awake wondering if you're enough for everything they carried in with them.
You won't fix it all. That was never the job. The job is to be steady, to be safe, and to keep showing up, even on the days they test whether you will.
You'll love some children for a season and then let them go, and it will hurt in a way you don't have words for yet. That hurt is not a sign you did it wrong. It's proof you did it right.
Whatever happens next, they were loved here. That counts. It always counts.
Cynthia
A LETTER TO THE MOTHER I WAS
To the adoptive mom, still becoming a family
Dear you,
People will say things without thinking. Is she yours? Where is his real mother? You'll smile, and later, alone, you'll feel the sting.
Here is what I know now: family isn't something you're born into. It's something you choose, and keep choosing, on ordinary Tuesdays and hard nights alike.
Your children may carry a story that began before you. Make room for it. Honoring where they came from doesn't take anything away from you. It makes their world bigger, and you, safer.
You are their real mother. You always were.
Cynthia
A LETTER TO THE MOTHER I WAS
To the mom teaching at the kitchen table
Dear you,
Some mornings it feels beautiful, a small school of your own. Other mornings the math book ends in tears, and some of them are yours.
You'll wonder if you're doing enough, if they're behind, if you've made the wrong choice. Look up for a moment. They're curious. They're safe. They're learning that home is a place where questions are welcome.
No one will hand you a report card for this. So let me: you are giving them something no classroom could, a parent who knows exactly how they think.
Close the books early one afternoon this week. That counts as school too.
Cynthia
A LETTER TO THE MOTHER I WAS
To the mother grieving, the year I lost my brother
Dear you,
The world didn't stop, and that felt like its own kind of cruelty. There were still lunches to pack and bills to pay, and you did them all with a hole in your chest.
Grief doesn't wait for a convenient time, and mothers rarely get to fall apart. So you'll grieve in pieces. In the car. In the shower. In the aisle where you saw something he would have laughed at.
That's allowed. You don't have to be strong in front of everyone. Your children can see you cry and still feel safe. Maybe safer, because they'll learn that love and loss can live in the same house.
He's still part of your story. Say his name out loud sometimes.
Cynthia
A LETTER TO THE MOTHER I WAS
To the woman starting over, and brave enough to love again
Dear you,
When it ended, you thought the hardest part would be the paperwork. It wasn't. It was learning who you were without the life you'd built around someone else.
You'll feel foolish the first time you get dressed up again. Nervous, hopeful, a little guilty. All of it is allowed. Your heart didn't break so that it could stay closed.
Take your time. You don't owe anyone a new beginning on a schedule. And you never have to shrink yourself to be chosen again.
The right love won't ask you to be smaller. It will make room for all of you, including the parts that survived.
Cynthia
A LETTER TO THE MOTHER I WAS
To the woman going back to school after bedtime
Dear you,
Textbooks open at midnight, children finally asleep, coffee gone cold. You're rebuilding a career and a life at the same time, and some nights you wonder who you think you are.
You think you're behind. You're not. You're bringing something younger students don't have: you know exactly why you're there.
It will take longer than you want. There will be semesters that feel impossible and jobs that ask everything of you. You'll keep going anyway, one small step, then the next.
Someday you'll look back at the woman at that kitchen table and feel nothing but tenderness for how hard she tried.
Cynthia
A LETTER TO THE MOTHER I WAS
To the woman who dared to want more
Dear you,
Someone once told you your dreams were too much. Too far, too big, too unrealistic for a woman in your position.
Want them anyway. Want them quietly, if you need to, and build toward them slowly. A life you love doesn't arrive all at once. It's made of small, brave choices, most of which no one else will ever see.
One day you'll wake up inside the life you used to imagine, and you'll hardly believe it's yours. It will be. You'll have earned every quiet morning of it.
And you'll want to turn around and tell every mother still waiting: it's not too late for you either.
Cynthia
If one of these found you in your own season, write to me. Your first letter is free, and I'll write back to you by name.