There’s a tenderness in matching her bows at midnight—not because she’ll remember, but because I need to. It’s not about the ribbon. It’s about the moment. The offering. The softness I place onto her so I can feel it echo back.
Sometimes I think motherhood is my second skin—stitched from the guilt, longing, and legacy I never voiced. It wraps around me in quiet hours. It tightens when I remember who I had to be, and loosens only when I let her be different.
When I fold her socks, I don’t just fold fabric—I fold memory. I fold the girl I used to be. The one who waited, quietly, for someone to brush her hair with intention. Now I brush hers like a ritual. Each stroke says what I never heard: you’re worth this time.
I dress her as if her bib’s colors could rewrite the palette of my past. I spray her pillow not just with lavender, but with memory. A scent meant to hold space for peace I still don’t fully know. Do I swaddle her—or am I really swaddling my own ache?
Sometimes I catch her giggle and panic—not from fear, but from reverence. Because it’s too sacred. Because I wonder if her softness is already stronger than mine ever dared to be.
I style her tantrums like performances—costumed storms I try to choreograph. I plan her playroom like a gallery. Do I decorate her world—or am I still trying to repair my own?
🍼 Use Blessed Baby Energy Shield – for when protection isn’t just for them, but for the past versions of you that still ache in silence
Her bath is my altar. Her crib, my confession booth. Her blank stare sometimes catches me off guard—like a mirror I didn’t consent to. When she sleeps too long, I panic. When she smiles, I wonder if she knows. When she calls for me, something ancient in me answers.
I nurse her between my own silences. I hold her not just to calm her—but to ground myself. The silk bows I buy at midnight aren’t just for her—they are for the part of me that still believes care must be earned.
✨ Energetic Anchors:
🜃 Read Proto Soul – Break.Code.Begin
🜁 Explore Viva Code – Crack.Flow.Flame
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