Sacred Motherhood.

What if we viewed our roles as mothers as a daily practice in returning to ourselves?

I can hear the little tiptoes sidling up to me as two small arms wrap around my leg.

I’m standing in the kitchen, the light is just starting to stream in and there is a quiet presence of dawn enveloping everything. I rub my eyes, too tired to see anything more than the kettle as it begins to reach a rolling boil. I fill the mug my husband set out for me last night with a bloop of local raw honey and an earl grey teabag.

I reach down and lightly tap on those sweet tiny arms, “I love you,” I whisper in a hushed tone so as not to wake my husband from his slumber upstairs. He loves a late night and I love an early morning, though it doesn’t feel like it when I first heard the sound of my daughter babbling in my ear before the sun had even fully risen.

The kettle turns off, signaling I am ready to fill my teacup with water that will turn an ordinary set of ingredients into an extraordinary sweet blend meant to wake up my extra tired eyes.

We still don’t sleep through the night, eighteen months into this journey of parenthood. I always thought before I became a mother that the sleeplessness would be the hardest. It’s very hard, but it’s never felt impossible. Instead, my normal 9-hour uninterrupted sleep self has adjusted rather effortlessly into a broken sleep pattern. Of course, I am tired. But I am not exhausted. I have good days where I feel almost entirely rested and tough days where I have to nap. But, it feels like my body has adjusted to the reality that comes with having a baby. Can I still call her a baby? I guess she’s more of a toddler now.

I open the door to let the dog out and then take my steaming cup of tea to the couch. We cuddle up while the baby toddler watches a show and I read a book. It’s quiet and simple, and the perfect start to the day ahead of us.

These moments are sacred. Not even just these moments, but this entire experience. It’s what I like to call sacred motherhood.

I recently looked up the meaning of sacred, and I found that it’s heavily connected to religion. I myself am not religious, but rather a deeply spiritual person interested in all metaphysical practices and existence. That being said, for me, the best word to describe my journey in motherhood so far is sacred. It is a connection to my truest self, and a daily practice in gratitude for something bigger than me, all at once. I am challenged deeper than ever before but feel an inner knowing that I am fulfilling my purpose every day. Of course, I have other purposes too, but nothing quite as important as this.

I can put away the work, I can forget about the dishes, and I can neglect other relationships, but not this one. This relationship with my child, and therefore with myself, is the most wholly symbiotic connection I could ever imagine. She is a piece of me, and my husband, taken out of us and created here on Earth.

How could I not believe in magic after seeing my own womb grow a human from myself and my own body birth that human into this world? How could I not be awestruck when I see the innocence in her eyes and the innate understanding that she is mine and I am hers?

I know she will not always be mine. And if I’m honest now, she never has been mine. She is hers and hers alone, just as I am not my mother’s or my father’s. I am my own entity created from a beautiful piece of them and sent out into the world to make my own destiny and carve my own path. I can only hope that I am a great representative of goodness in the world for my child to see. I can only hope that her foundation feels strong and supported in these early years so she knows how powerful she is. I can only hope that I do my job right as her mother. Or at least as well as I know how. And doing right doesn’t mean following the rules others or society have set for me. Doing right is an inner job and inner knowing, that only she and I can fulfill together.

It’s important, this motherhood thing. In the midst of days filled with errands and tiny tantrums, endless meals cooked, and countless diaper changes. As we go about regular life, it is so easy to forget that there is a greater purpose in it all. That at the end of the day, it doesn’t matter how much we did or didn’t do, it matters how we connected with those little humans who depend on us.

She’s woken up fully and is now playing with her toys. The dog is back in and begging for breakfast. The tea has kicked in and I’m awake. The sun is shining, and that small moment where the veil between our humanness and our spirit self has lifted. But I won’t forget, no. I will carry it with me, even when I don’t have the patience or when it feels impossible because that’s just what we as mothers do. We carry it with us. All of it. We hold the world in our hands and we make it look easy. We’re magical beings, us mothers.

I hold reverence for my mother.

And her mother.

And all the women who wish to be mothers but can’t.

Mothers that are no longer mothering on this plane.

Mothers who find mothering difficult because they were never mothered themselves.

Women who have no interest in being mothers.

I hold reverence for us all.

Special, we are. And when we know just how exceptional this calling is, we can find purpose when we’re in the weeds. We can trust that the seeds we are planting are leading to fields of flowers just waiting to grow. We can find meaning in difficult moments and embrace gratitude in joyful ones. For we can hold it all, us mothers.

And that’s why I believe it’s sacred, motherhood.