What I Want

What I want for the mothers in my world—for the women who breathe life into their homes, and the women who breathe life wherever they go. 

I want laughter to bubble up in your chest like popcorn. I want your days to feel vibrant, erupting with colour. With all of the flamingo pinks and raspberry reds, coral oranges and leafy greens. And even on the grey mornings, I want you to see a myriad of shades. I want you to feel alive. And when your bones are tired—when your very organs are tired—I want you to let yourself cry hot holy tears knowing that none of it is wasted. I want you to feel fulfilled and satisfied with a job well done. I want you to feel purpose and pleasure. I want your heart to be split wide open. And sown back together again with tender courage and a really good lipstick. I want you to feel held as you do all the holding. I want you to know who you are and who you are yet to be, that you belong. And I want you to know your life is art—even if it appears a little abstract for now. I want to give you permission to lead a small quiet life or follow your big loud dreams. Either way, permission granted. I want you to feel noticed. And when your days feel like a battle, I want you to remember you are creating light that pushes back against the darkness of this world, that this is war. And for goodness sake, I want you to take the dang nap.