Today I Miss My Mother

Today, I miss my mother.

Not her memory—

but her presence,

the way her presence comforted me

without saying a word.

As I nurture, I long to be nurtured.

As I cheer others on, I wish someone

would see me, clap for me,

say, “You’re doing good, baby. You’re doing just fine.”

When I’m tired, who takes care of me?

Who says, “You’ve done enough. Rest.”

Who looks at me and sees

how hard I am trying,

how much I am carrying,

how deeply I still need to be mothered?

I am grateful—so grateful—

for my husband,

for the family and friends who love me,

for every kindness and word of care.

But still—

does anyone see like a mother sees?

Hear like a mother hears?

Understand like a mother understands?

Lately, I feel so misunderstood.

So invisible.

So tired.

So unsure that I’m succeeding

in the very thing I most long to do—

to mother well.

I am always asked to pour out, and I do—

because that’s who I am,

who You made me to be.

But Lord, today—just today—

I want to receive.

I want to be poured into,

to be seen, to be softened,

to be held without having to explain why I’m weary.

Mommy, I miss you.

I don’t even know if we ever had this kind of closeness,

but I wish we had.

And I miss it anyway—

the dream of it, the need of it.

I need your love to hum in me, through me,

beneath all my strength.

I hope you know—

I’m trying.

I’m loving.

I’m mothering the best way I know how.

Because of you.

And even in missing you,

I’m still learning what love costs—

to be motherless, yet still pouring out your love.