I think you might be a mother.

Mother’s Day comes quiet and loud for someone like me.
Holding both ache and awe,
grief and gladness braided like a wildflower vine.

I am a mother.
To three forever wonders—
never here,
yet always, always here.
In breath, in heartbeat, in dream and prayer.
In the way I trace the shape of what could have been while loving fiercely what is.

I mother in the ways I know how:
With hands that teach.
With eyes that see people.
With a heart that breaks open for beauty, for love, for the light in the dark.
I mother in the quiet tending—
Of people.
Of this earth.
Of the tiny brave spaces between us.

There are many kinds of mothers.
The ones with babies in their arms.
The ones with babies in heaven.
The ones who mother through mentorship, through meals, through mercy.
The ones who long.
The ones who lost.
The ones who chose.
The ones who became.
The ones who are still becoming.

I reserve a bit of this day for me,
and most especially for every heart who has mothered something into being.
Because mothering isn’t a title.
It’s a way of moving through the world.
With nurture.
With courage.
With fierce, unyielding love.

So, if no one has told you today—
I think you might be a mother.