From one young mother to another:
There will be days when you feel insignificant.
You’ll watch the people around you speed ahead as you toddle behind with your littles. Your greatest accomplishments in life will be the days when you sleep for 8 straight hours and finish your coffee before it gets cold. You’ll envy the skinny, sexy women who have the luxury of diet and exercise and wish you had appreciated your body more before it got so squishy.
You’ll have to leave early from everything because the kids are fussy. Again. You’ll be bored out of your mind doing the same routine over and over and over. And then feel guilty for feeling bored.
There will be times when the only thing you feel you are contributing to society are diapers in the landfill, Days when the only social life you have consists of desperately lonely mothers at the park who haven’t talked to another adult in weeks. There will be moments where you wonder why you have the only job in the world requiring every hour of every day of every year with no sick leave and no vacation. And no pay.
And then you’ll tell people that you’re just a mom. Not something important, like a CEO. Or a lawyer. Or a professor. Or something you’d be proud to say.
You’re just a mom.
I want you to look around you for a moment. What do you see?
I’ll tell you what I see from where I am sitting, enjoying my 32 ounces of French press on a Monday morning away from the chaos of motherhood: I see a slightly overweight guy over there on his phone with coke bottle glasses. A kid in the corner with slick blonde hair, concentrated, headphones in. An annoying couple whose conversation is so close to my table that I can hear every word. Moms soothing babies. Baristas making really expensive coffee. Old ladies eating muffins.
And every single person around me has one thing in common.
Everyone has a mother. The young adults in the prime of their life, the artists who decorated the walls, the upholsterers of the chairs where people sit reading books and newspapers, the guy who just walked into the bathroom and the guy in the photograph on the wall from another country.
We all have moms.
I wouldn’t be sitting here, sipping warm coffee, listening to great music, writing with a pen in a journal on a table in a chair, staring at great photography of coffee roasters in Asia, contemplating why motherhood matters if mothers hadn’t carried and birthed the children who contributed to the elements of this very moment.
Everyone and everything you see was made possible by a mom.
We birth the world. And coffeeshops, and photographs, and comfy chairs, and people to sit in them, and newspaper articles, and tea and books.
The potential to improve or destroy the planet, every lover and every friend, every book and every song, every great idea started here: in a mothers’ womb.
Is it not a great honor to be a mother? We are bestowed with the ability to nurture, carry, and bring to life the greatest possibilities our planet has ever seen.
Our bodies, careers, homes, and schedules are stretched to the max to temporarily accommodate for the life being formed inside and outside of us, but….
stretch marks are a small price to pay for the very building blocks of human history.
And the privilege of making them is yours.
What if your greatest influence is cultivating those little strands of history that you grew from your own body?
Anyone can work those jobs you think are more important. But only YOU can be the mother of your children.
Be proud, young mother. You are a part of an ancient legacy, of this force which has made the world. You are an indispensable participant in the story of the earth.
You are a mom.
And there is nothing insignificant about that.