The Mother: A Story of Rediscovery
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She stepped outside for a moment of quiet,
the night sky stretching wide above her,
the only place she still remembered how to breathe.
Behind her, the house hummed with small lives.
She loved them fiercely.
And yet… a part of her felt far away from herself.
So she looked up, searching for something she couldn’t name.
She stepped outside for a moment of quiet,
the night sky stretching wide above her,
the only place she still remembered how to breathe.
Behind her, the house hummed with small lives.
She loved them fiercely.
And yet… a part of her felt far away from herself.
So she looked up, searching for something she couldn’t name.
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It began softly a pull toward the unseen places inside her.
A root-deep ache. A knowing that the life she built
was asking her to rediscover the woman within.
Crossing this threshold wasn’t dramatic;
most people didn't even notice her changing,
it was quiet, like slipping into the dark
to finally hear her own voice again.
This is the holy descent.
The forgetting.
The unravelling.
The moment everything breaks open just enough
to let the truth return.
In the stillness, she discovered a place she thought motherhood had swallowed,
the inner temple, the sanctuary of her own becoming.
Here, she held a small flame, trembling but alive.
The flame of intuition.
The flame of her voice.
The flame of the woman she used to be,
and the one she is still becoming.
She learned to tend it.
To honour it.
To reclaim her place at her own holy hearth.
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She stepped back into her life with new eyes,
not as the woman who had forgotten herself,
but as the one who had travelled inward
and brought back her own fire.
She stirred the pot with intention now.
She lit candles without apology.
She made tea for the woman she was becoming
as much as for those she tended.
This is the cycle of becoming,
the mother who remembers herself.
The woman who rises from within her own life.
The hearth keeper of her home and heart.
