The Woman I WAS Beneath A Storm

Motherhood is Being Afraid and Moving Above it

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They tell you the diapers,
the bottles,
the lullabies.
They do not tell you
what silence feels like
when the crying stops
and you still can’t breathe.

No one warned me
that love could ache like absence.
That joy could sit heavy
on a chest already full of doubt.
That holding two miracles
could still feel like losing myself.

Postpartum came
not like thunder,
but like fog.
Slow.
Soft.
Suffocating.

I smiled for photos.
I kissed tiny foreheads.
And inside,
I was unraveling.

Then —
a whisper of help.
A breath.
A hand.

Counseling wasn’t loud.
It didn’t fix me overnight.
But it listened.
And I heard myself
for the…