I’m convinced motherhood was never meant to be done alone.
In fact not much of anything was meant to be done alone. But while at the park today it was a breezy 65 and we were looking over the sparkly bay water and I breathed deeply. To be with friends who I once went to bars with, who have grown up with me, who have navigated marriage and heartache and Christian values with me, I see them now as mothers and we’re joined by that.
An image of myself at the park with moms would have terrified me in my twenties, but living it is peaceful. We did the late nights and the travel and now we sit on blankets and laugh about our kids idiosyncrasies and bitch about how they won’t take that 3:00 nap. We sit in peace together even when kids are anything but peaceful. We sit together in connection for a season of life that is isolating. We eat leftover string cheese straight out of our pockets and pass off crying babies while cheering for the toddlers on the slide.
My 20-year-old self is panicking at the sight. I would have assumed loss of self, loss of identity, loss of purpose. But my all-knowing 20-something self knew so little of love. She knew so little of what it feels like to give of oneself freely.
She thought identity was in independence and has since discovered that it in fact lies in connection.