Okay Together

“You’re my best friend, Mommy.”

Yes, Baby.

There’s so much emotion attached to his statement. If I were the mother of a typical 3 year old, I wonder if I’d feel differently about his words. The fact is, I am his best friend (his mother, his OT, PT, speech therapist, his nurse, his advocate) and forever his biggest fan.

But as much as this melts my heart to know my sweet boy sees me this way, it also stings. It stings because I know it’s true. He doesn’t have friends in the traditional sense and I can’t help but wonder if he ever will.

I know what you’re thinking – he’s THREE! Stop overthinking!

We are early in our journey and there’s so much progress to be made. Yet still…my heart cannot help but ache and long for him to know true acceptance from someone other than his mother. I pray this every day as I drop him at preschool…

“Please, Lord. Give him a friend. Give him comfort and strength. Watch over him.”

There is so much we don’t know – can’t know – until it all unfolds. That’s hard for me. Really hard. I want to know if he’ll ever be able to comfortably associate with peers. I want to know if he will ever initiate instead of always needing an adult to prompt.

Some of the fiercest battles we fight as special needs parents are the ones inside our own hearts. We battle between fact and what we hope and pray will be. We do our best to stay strong and positive and sometimes…sometimes it just becomes too much. In spite of our best efforts, we crumble. Under all the pressures and demands, necessary and self-imposed, we succumb to the battle, knees falling to the rocky ground, and we plead with all that is in us to just make it all okay.

“Please, Lord, let it all, always be okay.”

And when we finally pick ourselves up, brushing off the fear, anxiety, and yes, sometimes anger, we see that our knees bear the scars of having fallen countless times before and yet still, we rise. We rise to do it all again and again because these precious souls have been entrusted to our care. And for as many times as we fall and hurt, they hurt just as much and more – and still, THEY rise.

Our babies fight no matter what. They don’t give up, they don’t complain, they march onward – and so must we.

I would battle thousands of lifetimes to be the mother of the son I have right now. He was meant to be mine, of this I am certain. Our souls have been, and always will be, eternally intertwined.

So yes, Baby. I am your best friend. Today, tomorrow, through every sting and every scar. Together, it will be okay. Together we are okay.

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Cherish the Valleys

Sometimes we can spend our entire lives waiting. And when we get there, our eyes are still set on the horizon rather than the ground beneath our feet. Sometimes we spend years climbing one mountain, we forget to live in the valleys between.
But what if the valleys are where memories are made? What if the valleys are where life is lived? What if this is the only time you have been given? Can you say you are using it wisely?

Time has a way of creeping up on you. I lived my life waiting for the “next” until experiencing life’s fragility taught me differently. It taught me to hold tightly to the moments. It taught me to live fully without holding back, embrace the mess of life and embrace the beauty. It taught me to cherish the valleys.
What if we spent our every moment looking ahead that we missed the very earth beneath our feet? What if we lived our whole lives hating the discomfort, hating the discontentment, when really, those things are what this life is made of and where the real growth happens.
Forge more life into each of your days! Cherish the valleys, the soil beneath your feet. Like the mighty oak, anchor your taproots firmly, then spring up and branch out; reach and stretch and allow yourself to be pulled toward the sun. When the winds of adversity blow, bend – but don’t break – and absorb all that this life has to offer.

Now Autism 

I need your help in changing the way the world sees anyone who is different. The words that are to follow are important, and stringing together the appropriate letters to convey what is in my soul right now, feels just about impossible. Writing from my heart can be painful, but it’s 100% real, and real is what I always strive to be.
A few days before Christmas 2016, we went for a second opinion and more information regarding Luke’s cortical dysplasia/cerebral palsy. Our previous neurologist transferred out of state and we had made this new appointment with a very reputable doctor last Winter, waiting a year to see her. Going into the appointment I wasn’t worried. I already knew Luke’s diagnoses and challenges but I wanted a clearer picture, a better understanding, and to discuss some concerns.

So tonight, I want to share with you, and the world, that I have a son, his name is Luke. He just turned 3 and he is so perfect and so beautiful that even now, I still can’t believe he really belongs to me. He makes me believe in God and in miracles. He lights up my entire world…and he has autism.
And although this isn’t shocking to me – I have known in my heart for quite some time – I still have moments of shock. I know in a few days the sting will wear off more fully but what won’t wear off, is the overwhelming sadness and fear for those in this world that are tormented because of their differences. This is where my heart has been sitting since last week. I can’t talk about it without tears. Even as I type this, I can barely see through them all.

I’m not sad for Luke, I’m not sad for me, for our family – Luke is amazing just the way he is. I’m sad for the people in this world who are so closed-minded that they will never see the beauty in someone with a disability. Until you spend some good quality time with Luke, you may think he is a typical toddler, and in many ways, he is. But he struggles – interacting with his peers is extremely upsetting to him – so he doesn’t do it. He has meltdowns. His left hand frustrates him, his left foot isn’t as stable and causes him to sometimes fall or appear very clumsy. Transitioning can be absolutely unnerving for him and he has difficulty expressing and communicating. He is impulsive and at any given time an object could be on a trajectory for your head (unintentionally). He sometimes needs to repeatedly spin in circles (I would barf) or throw himself into hard surfaces – maybe even you.

I could tell you more about Luke’s challenges and things he struggles with, more of his quirks, but instead, I want to tell you who he is.

Luke is capable of giving the best and most amazing hugs and kisses ever. He has a great sense of humor and can make a room full of people laugh. He absolutely loves adults and is extremely engaging and a total sweetheart; everyone who meets him, loves him. He sees beauty everywhere – and he makes sure you see it, too. He is polite, he is caring, and so very sensitive. He is the best and biggest helper. He ALWAYS knows where the sun and moon are at any given time. He has amazing hearing, and tells us when aircraft is approaching long before we can hear or see it. He loves music and has some pretty fancy footwork. He is very bright and super inquisitive to the point of driving me mad most days! He has an absolutely incredible memory. I could go on and on…These are Luke’s gifts. Nothing of which to be ashamed, or to hide, they are uniquely his.
Most simply put, Luke is love.

It’s not disability that robs us. What robs us, are our minds and the negative thoughts we house in them. Each of us is a vessel through which either love and positivity flow, or, negativity and sadness. We have the choice every day as to what type of conduit we will be to each other and to the world. And as long as I am on this earth, I will do my damdest to be sure Luke will only know love and acceptance.

As you’re reading this, you’re perhaps thinking that I have it all together – that I’m so positive – and you’d only be half right. I am positive. I worked for that and earned that many, many years ago in my childhood. It’s who I am, and I thank God, because I never would have made it through without that thought. But having it all together? No way.

This last year has been extremely stressful and challenging as I kept silent in my heart what I knew about Luke, until we received a diagnosis last week. We are challenged daily by his behaviors. I have searched and researched, for every possible activity and experience to give Luke, so as to help him – our nights and weekends have been consumed. I’ve spent so much time at his daycare to help him better interact, his classmates now call me “Mommy” and it’s totally possible that if you were to peek in the window, you’d see me holding someone else’s child, or wiping their nose, or reading them a book, or just plain handing out hugs and giving knuckles. But I don’t mind any of it.
While I haven’t had much time for myself lately, it’s okay, because my son only has one shot at being helped early. Now is the time for the big push. He has made some great strides in the last few weeks and we know it’s from supports my husband and I have sought and have been providing both ourselves and through therapists. Now he will have access to even more and for that, I am so relieved and thankful.

So no, I don’t have it all together and this is not the least bit easy. I have a lot to learn. It’s not as cut and dry as heart surgery (but thank God it’s not heart surgery, again!) I am exhausted most days, cannot sleep most nights, and am often times the primary parent caring for Luke when he is struggling. He and I have a very strong connection that is different from that of he and his Dad. Being able to calm Luke comes very naturally to me and while it’s not always foolproof, most often I can at least desecalate and stabilize, and bring him comfort.
If I can ask one thing, please, educate your children, educate yourself. Talk to your children about the beauty of a world filled with differences. Kids are perceptive; they know when a child looks differently, acts differently, or talks differently. And maybe one other thing – stay connected to the people in your life. If someone drifts away, there may be very good reason, but perhaps not one they are able to, or can share at the time; don’t assume, don’t judge. Your text, phone call, offer to go to lunch or grab a coffee, will speak volumes to them, and could very well be the thing that gets them through some pretty challenging moments.

Remember that this life isn’t about YOU. This life is about others. What joy can you bring to someone else. How might you ease their discomfort. The measure of a life well lived isn’t in the loud displays, accolades, and self-seeking recognition. It’s in the quiet moments when you choose to be a conduit of love and pure acceptance to someone else and no one else knows – it’s between giver and receiver. We can all strive for this, every day.

To The Mom Stressed and Worried About Her Child’s Health

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Dear worried and stressed Mom,

I see you. I see you smiling and hustling and bustling through life. Going to work, working from home, in the grocery store, running the roads, the parks, stroller in toe. Happiness and laughter, but with a slight twist of hesitation. I see the shadows lurking in the corners, ready to stomp across the sunshine in your eyes. The imminent gray that grows and swells, and in a moment, will envelope your happy – if you let it.

I see you going about your day, responsibilities and regrets. Worries if you are spending enough quality time with him. Phone calls to doctors and therapists can wait – but they can’t…I see you pulled and stretched, molded and shaped in directions of choice and directions of fear. Like warm, pulled putty in a toddler’s hands, you’re thin, drooping and sagging. Good, bad, insensitive and well-meaning remarks – they all cling to you, lost in the sticky sea of your soul, they become a part of you. Don’t let them become you.

I see you late at night, wearily standing at your kitchen counter, drawing weekly meds. You wait until he sleeps, for this disease has robbed enough of your time together – you will give no more. While most have a junk drawer, yours is chock full of medical supplies and drug interaction pamphlets. I know what’s in your head – with every pull of the plunger, filling a vial higher and higher, flick of the syringe – this isn’t fair.

Doing this isn’t fair. Being here isn’t fair. This life is sometimes so unfair. So full of hurt you can’t explain unless to another who has also been there. You hurt for your child, although they know no different – you do. And you weep inside and out for what they must endure. You weep because you feel helpless, powerless and you must watch them endure.

I see the pain behind the smile. It lurks in the words of positivity you often speak. You can’t fool me. I know you. I know your scared, overflowing, joyful and broken heart. I know it has no bottom for that dear one you adore. I know it stings. I know it’s sore.

Momma, I feel you. I feel your heartaches, your nausea, your headaches, your sleepless nights, the hesitation in your step as you drag yourself forward because –  THERE. IS. NO. OTHER. WAY. I feel the desperation in your longing – the day you pray will come – when worry of health and sickness will wither away, wash away. Please – take all this away.

I hear your heart stop when the doctor enters the room with results. When a fever is never just a fever, a cough is always something more, weekly therapies, visits to specialists and the ER are your normal. I know the staggering halt that encompasses your entire being. When the world stops revolving and begins spinning, spinning, spinning, out of your control. I know you want to make it stop.

I smell the sweet victory when you can overcome that fear – fight the foe with all that is in you, and then nestle tightly in the quiet moments where the intoxicating scent of your child’s head, the stroke of your finger along his soft and fleshy cheek, holding tiny feet in the palm of your hand, is the elixir of all that is right, and good enough, to always bring you back. Back to carefree, worry-free, stress-free. Even if only for a little while.

I see you there. Soaking in every. precious. moment. Because we know too well, Momma, another one of these is never guaranteed.

I see you playing with him, chasing, tickling, giggling, loving. Wholehearted love. Fierce love. Love that defies anything this messed up earth could bring. A love that fights, hopes, and a love that stings like no other when you find you are helpless to the illnesses and diseases beyond your control.

I see you struggling to keep it all together, Momma. Fighting back the tears, the lump that grows in your throat that you never let out – can’t let out – are afraid to let out. I see you change the station because you simply cannot listen to “that” song – not today, not now. Maybe not ever. I see you congratulate a new mom, and I also see you cry in secret as the pain of your own losses, missed opportunities and anger over a cruel disease, overtake you. I know the guilt you will feel – for everything. For being too much, too little, not enough, wanting more, having more than you believe you deserve. For wishing your child never had to endure life living this fear. That you, wouldn’t have to live this fear.

I know that sometimes when you cry it comes out of your eyes, but sometimes, many times, it just stays in your soul.

I see you strong, Momma. I see you now. I’ve seen you in the past and I know I will see you again. Please listen to me. Read my words. Take my words. You are stronger than you know. You have more fire and feist than a pen of wild bulls, because this is your baby – your heart, your soul. When you feel weak and fragile, like you can’t even make it to your pillow – trust. With all that is in you, trust, and keep your faith close. Power comes in times like these. Strength comes in times like these – where in that brave, costly, intentional action of the heart, pure love wholly lives.

I know you, Momma. I hear you and I see you, and we never need words to speak what we know of each other in our hearts. Your worry is my worry. Your fear is my fear. My strength is your strength – so take it. When you are running low and weary from the fight, press on. When your chest is heavy and you can’t breathe, see the beauty in front of you, pour your heart into the joy that is before you. Hold that baby tight and carry him through…and I will carry you.

Peace be still, Momma. Peace be still.

Purpose

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I think a lot about my purpose now. It was somewhat clear before, but not as deep. Important, but not nearly as moving. I was a wife, engaged in and climbing my way in a demanding, full-time career. I was a loyal friend, family member and volunteer. I was balancing it all nicely – squeezing in everything I needed to do along with everything I wanted to personally achieve. In retrospect, my stress was low – after what I have now experienced and continue to face.

When Luke was diagnosed with a congenital heart defect, my thoughts and emotions shifted. Once he was born, my entire purpose shifted. My world was gone. Laurel was gone. Everything I had been working for and towards, was placed on the back burner. In one instant, all those things were gone. My purpose transformed to heart and drug researcher, sacrificial mother, and fighter.

And now? Where am I after most of the dust has settled? Who am I? What will I do with what I have learned – am learning – from this beautiful and scary journey?

My brain is the same – it desires inquiry, craves to-do lists and work, fulfillment, challenge, and success.

My perspective is changed – it is rare – I am quicker to judge in some ways and I am more accepting in most. I do not tolerate BS – at all. I don’t care about most trivial things.

My eyes are more clear – seeing into hearts, seeing pain, strugglers alongside me, individuals fighting battles each day. I see what matters – joy, hope, heartache, love, faith, and miracles.

Then there’s my heart…my heart is so not the same. In some ways it is blacker, it has been broken and pieced back together, stronger than it ever was before. It has been shocked, tormented, tangled and tested, and has been made more aware. It has been tuned in to the good stuff in this life – the magic, the miracles – that life can bring. It feels the pain of others more tenderly and most often doesn’t have need for words. It craves the beauty that my son brings to my life.

And so now, still enmeshed in this medical journey, I think “What’s next for me?” How does a 39-year-old mother progress after, and while going through, what is a transformation of my very core? What do the next years mean for me? Where should my personal path take me?

My first desire and thought each morning before my feet even hit the floor is to be the most engaged and loving momma to my precious boy and to show my husband how much I love him. In spite of all the demands that challenge and test us, these two beings are my world, my everything. Most days this is simple – those are my goals. Then I ponder the bigger picture – how will I use my journey? What purpose, aside from my own lessons, can be gained and given to others. I am traveling this road, I have to do something with it.

I hope that I live my life as example of faith, joy, love, and determination, but I feel at times it is not enough. And so I turn to writing this blog to sort out the thoughts and make sense of the experiences and lessons learned. I am reminded that this journey really isn’t about me, nor is it about Luke. It is about what HE is doing in our lives – the testimony God began in our story and the ribbons of hope He is weaving throughout our journey of faith.

Purpose – for now mine is to give encouragement, perhaps change the heart of someone sharing a similar journey. To be an example of dwelling in the precious moments with your babies, holding their cheeks softly to yours, looking closely at their little profiles and wide eyes as they discover the world around them, and embrace their magic. To recognize that there are strugglers all around you – fighting things you cannot see, or imagine – you may even be one of them. Take to heart that you cannot ever plan for what is to come, and one day you may be that struggling soul, so you soak up today and all of its blessings.

You find your purpose where the tethers of this mortal life no longer bind you and your heart is free to take shape and soar with compassion and love and wherein His grace, is always enough.

Moments

Over the weekend I was running errands with Luke in tow. Having skipped his nap in lieu of playing and squealing and being a toddler, he was resting his heavy head on my chest as we stood in line at the check out. His bustling little body and busy hands, now resting on my shoulder with a gentle grip on my shirt collar.

I had just been making arrangements for his next surgery prior to our stop at the store and was lost in thought running through mental notes of what still needed to be secured for his procedure. I was swaying back and forth, Luke slowing drifting in and out of sleep. I kissed his head, gave him a snuggling squeeze, and breathed him in. The woman in line behind me kindly leaned forward and very sweetly told me to make sure I enjoy these moments – that one day they will be gone too quickly.

I nodded my head and gave her a smile, thanked her, and proceeded to check out, all the while thinking to myself – “she doesn’t know”.

She doesn’t know how my heart yearned for him before he was ever conceived. She doesn’t know the absolute and sheer elation of confirming a pregnancy I thought would never happen. The 6 pregnancy tests I took on Mother’s Day morning (not to mention all the ones in days prior) and the tackling leap I made into my husband’s arms afterward. Or, that before I even took those 6 tests, I had an instinct that told me I was pregnant and saved me from taking a medication an ER doctor prescribed because he said I “likely lost the baby and probably have irritable bowel”.

She doesn’t know that when I heard his heartbeat for the very first time, it was the most beautiful and breathtaking sound I would ever know. That it was strong and quick, and such a gift. And that 13 weeks later that same heartbeat, as strong as it was, would lead us to discovering he had a critical congenital heart defect.

She doesn’t know the shock I felt, and that in an instant, all my joy was replaced with stagnating fear.

She doesn’t know the journal I started for him that Mother’s Day, telling him how much he was wanted and already loved. Or the letters I would write to him from my heart, sharing happenings of our day, and then telling him of his diagnosis, and how much it hurt.

She doesn’t know that I ceased all planning on his nursery. That I closed the door to the room where he would one day sleep, and for a little while, closed the door to my heart. That I didn’t want a baby shower, clothing, toys or empty albums, because it hurt too much – the thought he might never use them and I might never get to fill them.

She doesn’t know the sadness that overcame me or how hard I fought to push it out – and won.

She doesn’t know that on the day I pulled out all the stops and made a decision to love in spite of all the “what-ifs”, the door to his room reopened and with it, a tide of love so strong, it would wipe out anything and anyone in its path. That that very room would become the only place I would find solace and safety, and feel close to him when I came home, and he didn’t.

She doesn’t know how weeks of ultrasounds and tests leading up to his birth brought me closer to him. How seeing his magnificent and delicate body flicker across a screen, learning every facet of his heart, would further solidify my commitment to him.

She doesn’t know how with every passing day, carrying his beautiful body in my womb, knowing full well challenges would lie ahead, that I vowed to love him through it all. For hours I would sit, talking to just him, loving him. I would lie awake in the night – his most active time – just to feel him move because I feared I might never have the chance once he was born.

She doesn’t know how hard and often I prayed, begging God to just let me keep him. And that no matter what, I would love him in life and I would love him in death, if God called him home.

She doesn’t know how I labored with him – becoming so ill, both our lives in jeopardy. The moments when his heart rate began to plummet and my body was giving out. Facing a heart-wrenching reality and making it known that at all costs, Luke must be saved.

She doesn’t know once he was born, I never heard his first cry or that I don’t fully remember him being laid beside me an hour later, his precious face I would not see through all the tape and tubing. Three days I would wait to see him again and the reunion, so much like coming home. The other half of my heart lying in a NICU, so frail, so tiny – so mine.

She doesn’t know the hours upon hours I spent at his bedside. So many sleepless nights of worry and because I just wouldn’t leave him. Setting alarms reminding me to pump because it was the only thing I could do for my baby, and all the while, machine suctioning, I would sob. I sobbed because this wasn’t how it was supposed to be. I sobbed because I wanted my baby to my breast, not a sterile, cold machine. I sobbed because I had seen another mother lose her precious boy just moments before, and I too, now understood the delicate balance of life. And I sobbed.

She doesn’t know the fears and tears I have shed – joy and sadness. Handing my baby to a surgeon, not knowing if he would ever come back to me and when he did, the rejoicing in my heart at his new life.

She doesn’t know how my heart was being prepared for a baby I thought I might lose – a baby that I needed more than he ever needed, or will need me.

If she knew these things…how I still rock him before bed every night, sometimes to his dismay. Or that I check on him before I drift to sleep and then again like clockwork, awake in the middle of the night, to watch him breathe. That I see him – really see him – play and interact, and I admire him, adore him, for all he has achieved.

If she knew we still have a pebbly and uncertain road ahead, or all the many ways he’s making strides. That a milestone is so much more than that – it is extraordinary – and how my heart swells and leaps when he learns something new and is so proud of himself.

And when he’s racing around all full of boy – screaming and yelling and dirty, causing fantastic destruction in his path, and so trustingly throws himself into my arms, I feel his heart thumping and pumping, red cheeks and sweaty brow — I know. I know full well, these are the moments. Such precious moments. If she knew all my heart holds – life-altering experience that cannot be unseen or unfelt – she would know, it is in these moments that I fully live every minute of every day.

Life lived isn’t always to be measured in years. It is in the depth. Live fully. Love deeply. No regrets. Mind the moments.

Enough

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“Do you know how special you are? Do you know how much Mommy loves you?”

As I drew him into my chest, nestled tightly in my arms, I whispered in his ear. I tickled him under the arm, he giggled and squirmed, trying to toddle away – I only had his attention for a few seconds. I snuck a quick kiss on the bridge of his nose, and just like that, he was off again.

He’s 18 months now and ready to take on his world. He’s curious, and yet, still cautious. He’s bold. He is relentless and can be impatient. He is determined. He is focused. His enthusiasm is unbridled and untainted. There is adventure waiting, and he’s on the cusp of the age where he knows it. He is sensitive. All animals – fictional or otherwise – are friends (or named, Greta), and are deserving of his hugs and kisses. His heart is real and it is big.

Growing up, I was a very sensitive child. I was the kid who wore her heart on her sleeve, apologized to my animals, made sure no one felt left out. I was the girl who sat with the lonely kid because I couldn’t, not. I treated others – including inanimate objects – with the sensitivity and attention I so desperately craved. I learned early on the world was not as soft as my stuffed animals, and not everyone would treat me in the same way.

I was young, I can’t recall the exact age, but I can pinpoint one of my very first moments of rejection. I wanted to climb in to my mother’s lap. I wanted to snuggle. To feel secure, to feel safe. I was rejected. It was “too hot” or she was “too busy” or I was “too heavy”. Transition to pre-teen years when I was self-conscious, even more sensitive. My self-esteem was a seesaw that in a moment, could plummet to the unforgiving asphalt beneath. I was mocked by my own mother for doing my hair, painting my nails – for what I now realize, was taking a little pride in my physical self. In those moments, teetering low, I prayed the black abyss would swallow me whole. I was devastated. I spent most of my childhood being a social chameleon just to get the acceptance I so deeply wanted. Needed.

I eventually learned to laugh it all off – rejection. My skin grew thicker, my emotions buried deeper, only to be unlocked in later years. I have grown and learned since I was a child. I realized I could live like a victim, I could continue to love in spite of it all, or I could become cynical. My choice vacillated between #2 and #3.

I wanted to be everyone’s everything. I wanted to be the favorite. I wanted to be the pretty one. I wanted to be the thin one. I wanted to be the popular one. I wanted to be the athletic one. I wanted to be the smart one. I wanted to be the creative one. I wanted to be the funny one. I wanted to be the trusted friend. I wanted to be everything – to be it all. The people pleaser – THAT’S ME! I wanted to be loved. I soon realized that in order to have everyone like me, I had to be many things, and it was exhausting. To some, I was too nice, so I needed to be tougher. To others I was too aloof, so I needed to be more sociable. It left me realizing that I no longer knew who I was.

It’s taken time and experience for me to realize not everyone will like me – and that’s okay. I will hold myself to a standard of grace, not perfection.

I am certain as I continue this blog and my honest writing, I may have friends who depart from my life. And I also know, I will gain new ones. Before I started this blog I worried constantly about putting myself out there, and in my inevitable style, made a pro and con list. It was PACKED with “what ifs.” What if someone doesn’t like the real me? What if someone thinks I’m weird? What if I offend someone? What if I’m doing life all wrong? What if someone takes what I write the wrong way? WHAT IF?! And in the pro column, scribbled all by its lonesome, “why not now.”

The time to be real is now. To be authentically and unapologetically, YOU.

Although I occasionally still get stuck on that seesaw and can get caught up in the cycle, I know I cannot be everyone’s everything. I can’t be everyone’s favorite, everyone’s friend. People will love me and people will hate me. People will judge me and people will accept me. Take me or leave me, people will be people and my purpose in this life is not to win them over.

We were not placed on this earth for everyone to like us. We are here to be true to the individual purposes we have been given.

I know one of my purposes: to give all the love I have to a brave and beautiful boy with innocence in his eyes and a spirit bright as the sun. I know I am here to give him myself. My time, my energy, my hugs, my kisses. To put all my heart into raising him, nurturing him, helping him grow into everything he can be. I can’t be a favorite to everyone, but I can be his favorite. Every time I put down the phone, the to-do lists, toss out the worry, the fears. Every time I scoop his 25 pound body into my arms and smell his hair. Every time I lay on the floor and let him crawl all over me. Every time I make his day by taking him to the park for a run, act silly and [so badly] dance around the room to watch him laugh. Every time I play cars, roll the ball, and scream and yell just because we can. Every time I rock him and sing our special song. Every moment I am consistent and faithful in following through on my promises to him, and to raising him with all the best that is in me – that is enough. Every hour. Every day. Every week. That is why I am here.

I have a little boy who needs to know that being himself is more than enough. And when the day comes when the world reveals its true colors and his heart is bruised, I will not let it harden. I will tell him,

“Do you know how special you are? Do you know how much I love you? Always be you, no matter what. You are more than enough. Not everyone will like you, and that’s okay. You are loved. You are always loved.”

We are all enough. You are enough. I am enough. Quirks, flaws, highest highs and lowest lows, you are enough. Don’t you ever change. You are loved. Always loved.