The day I almost lost myself… and my son found me
A few days ago, I woke up feeling deeply sad. The kind of heavy sadness that coffee and distractions can’t fix. I moved through the morning on autopilot, doing everything I had to do. But nothing seemed to be enough.
I slowly opened the bedroom blinds, just enough to see my children’s small bodies, curled up next to each other, sleeping peacefully. I got back into bed with them. I woke them the way I always have: with kisses, hugs, and soft music playing in the background. This time, “Blessings” by Hollow Coves.
I smiled. My heart was full. And at the same time, broken.
The rest of the morning went by as usual: diapers, getting dressed, breakfast, backpacks, playtime, rushing out the door. I dropped one off at daycare and the other at preschool.
Then I came back home. The silence hit instantly. And it felt heavy.
I tried to keep busy. I ate something. I worked. I cleaned. I turned on the TV just to fill the emptiness. I put on nicer clothes. Looked at myself in the mirror. Tried to find myself. But I wasn’t there.
That day, the emptiness that had been living in my chest since my ex left rose up into my throat, and nothing I did could ease the suffocating feeling.
In the afternoon, I picked up the kids. When we got home, as always, I became everything they needed me to be: a soccer player, a dinosaur, a tickle monster, a superhero. We laughed. We played. We danced in a circle, holding hands. We sang “happy birthday” to a panda. Then the three of us marched off to bed.
In bed, I lined up three pillows. One for me. Two for them. My youngest pointed at mine and said, “mama”. I lay down with them.
While the youngest fell asleep on my chest, I told my oldest a story. This time about Tom and Jerry. “A made-up story, not from a book,” just the way he likes it. Invented. Unique. Ours.
Then, in the dark and the quiet, a small hand reached for mine. He held it tight. And for a moment, the loneliness disappeared.
Just when I thought they were both asleep, I heard my oldest’s voice:
“Mom, who are your four favorite people in the world?”
I answered “You, your brother, grandma and grandpa.”
He immediately said, “You’re forgetting someone.”
I thought of their dad, so I corrected myself: “Oh, right, dad. But you only asked for four. Mom loves dad too.”
I really thought that’s who he meant. But then he said:
“No, mom. You forgot yourself.”
I froze.
“You have to love yourself too. Say it again. Who are your four favorite people? You… and who else?”
In that moment, the suffocating feeling I had carried all day disappeared. And something else took its place. Clear. Simple. Unexpected. A deep, overwhelming pride. Because in the middle of everything, I realized I am raising someone who already knows what I am still learning.
Leave a Reply