#gentlemothering

I exclusively breastfeed on demand and she’s been sleeping beside me her whole life pretty much. Tucked against me, safe and snug.

I know not everyone is into cosleeping, and that’s okay.

But I needed my baby close.

And more importantly, she needed me.

I know that in my bone marrow.

Now, at 11 months old, she presses her feet into my thighs or my belly while she drifts to sleep, using me as the original pacifier.

But she’s been pressing into me like this since before she was born…. when we shared a body.

Every night, I’d roll over and she’d wake up with tiny feet of fury. Heels pressing into my palms.

Her feet would poke through my side like something out of Alien, and it was terrifying and beautiful and sacred.

Still is.

I keep her grounded

and maybe that’s one of the most important things I’ve ever done.

If you connect with writing like this, I’m slowly turning these moments into art and digital prints over at my Etsy shop — 4HerForever. It’s all for her, but maybe a little bit for you too.💟

🛒 etsy.com/shop/4HerForever 🛒

I saw this painting, and I’m still crying about it.

It cracked something open in me.

Not because it’s tragic. But because it’s true.

That’s what motherhood feels like. Being the ground. The sun. The arms. The whole world, somehow.

They climb all over you. Need you constantly. And you still want to give them more.

Each child in that painting has their own little personality — some are shy, some bold, some curious, some lost in the safety of her chest — and she holds all of them like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And it is.

It’s sacred. It’s what being human should be.

And I don’t know… I just wish I lived in a world like that.

Where mothers gathered.

Where we held space for the moment.

Where we weren’t drowning in noise and pressure and comparison and “getting things done.”

Where children were seen as magic, not burdens.

Where women were honored, not made to fight each other or shrink themselves to survive.

Sometimes I feel like I don’t belong here.

Like I was born in the wrong time.

Like I’m too soft, too dreamy, too full of feeling for a world that seems to only care about speed and ego and consumption.

But I know what I feel is real.

I know motherhood is sacred.

I know my daughter is sacred.

And I know I’m not silly for wanting a quieter, deeper, more loving world for her.

Maybe I’m not the woman in the painting.

But maybe I’m her echo.

Trying, even in all this chaos, to remember what matters.

To keep love rooted.