I am a million things. A mother is not one them.

I am not lullabies and milk bottles and cuddles after a bath. I am not a pram or a nightlight or a bedtime story. I am not Mummy or parent or Mama. I am not the whole world to one tiny person. I am not a mother.

I am yellow roses. A thousand books. Chocolate. Cake. Hugs. Deep conversations or just a quick chat. Laughter, giggles, a wry smile. I am empathy. Kindness. A listening ear. Stories, a spoken tale, the written word. Music and song and lyrics and rhythm. I am the beach on a blustery day. A tree basking in the sun. I am nose kisses with my dog. Cuddle time with my pets. Watching birds and wildlife and sunsets. I am hundreds of photographs, capturing the landscape, much-loved animals, my family in a frame. I am living, a being in motion, a melting pot of thoughts and feelings, dreams and hopes. Not all dreams come true. Some cannot. A baby will never bloom and curl and grow in my womb. Am I lesser a woman for it? I am not. It is hard to believe. I barely believe it myself. There are times I don’t believe it at all. But I must. For it is a truth. And I am truthful by nature. I am dreamy-eyed. And strong. And determined. Gentle when I need to be. Complex and courageous.

I am heartbroken – yes. But I know I am not alone.

We are a million things. All wonderful. All unique.

We are all worthy. We just have to believe it.

Anonymous