Planting Seeds

I think of motherhood as planting seeds.

Not the kind you rush or measure,

but the kind you place gently into the soil of ordinary moments,

trusting that something sacred is happening beneath the surface.

Each hug.

Each kiss pressed into soft skin.

Each slow rock in the quiet of night.

Each feed.

Each walk where the world feels both vast and new.

Each time they reach their arms out for me

and I answer by gathering them into my body.

These moments don’t announce themselves as important.

They slip past quietly.

They look like repetition.

They feel like love in its most unremarkable form.

But this is how bonds are built.

This is how trust learns my name.

This is how love takes root.

I am planting something every time I show up — tired, tender, imperfect — and choose presence anyway.

And while I am growing this bond with my baby,

I can feel something growing in me too.

I am becoming a mother

in the same way love always grows —

slowly, quietly,

moment by moment.

These are the seeds.

And somehow, they are teaching us both how to bloom.