Proud of her

I’m proud of her.

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I’m proud of how she has stepped into her role; one she has no training for and which is far different to what she was expecting.

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I’m proud of her for growing, nourishing and raising the little humans the way she is. The way that feels right. Her way.

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I’m proud of how she manages each day on little sleep, too much coffee and the perfect amount of love.

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I’m proud of her for showing up every day no matter what and for staying there for as long as she is needed.

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I’m proud of her for honouring her new skin, her new life and her new purpose even when she feels so old.

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I’m proud of her for doing all the unseen things and for seeing them before her always.

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I’m proud of her for trying her best every day, even when her best looks different or feels the worst.

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I’m proud of her for allowing herself to be lost in them, in this season, in everything they want and need when she’s still trying to find the “her” in herself.

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I’m proud of her for loving them with every inch of every part of her even when she feels that she has no more her to give.

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I’m proud of her.

When I allow myself to see it this way anyway.

When I see past the clutter of everything that really doesn’t matter.

When I see her with them in this way, in her current form.

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But I never tell her.

Not once have I told her during this season.

Not like I tell my children to be proud of themselves every day.

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Probably because it feels strange to say.

Probably because when we get to a certain age it seems to be considered inappropriate.

Probably because I’m too busy telling everyone else I’m proud of them.

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But I am proud of her.

We are allowed to be proud of her.

We should tell her more.

My her, your her, every her.

Because there’s a lot to be proud of.