Could you tell?

Could you tell?

Could you tell that this woman used to wear heels, suits, and makeup every day?

That her work was her life?

That the weekdays consumed her?

That she enjoyed the hustle, bustle, and deadlines?

And that she particularly loved being on time?

Could you tell?

Could you tell that this woman didn’t know whether she wanted to be a mother at all?

That she never gravitated towards babies?

That she never considered herself to be the maternal type?

That she worried about what sort of mother she would be if she ever became one?

Could you tell?

Could you tell that this woman loves writing, fashion, and renovating homes?

That she enjoys having things for herself?

That her children are her purpose, but she has other interests she tries to find the time for?

That she is more than spewed on clothes and the same activewear she’s worn since yesterday?

Could you tell?

Could you tell that this woman feels more alive than ever?

That the exhaustion so clearly pleading with the lens for sleep is misleading?

That she’s tired, yes, but the reason she keeps going is them?

That they are her fuel, her spark, her everything?

Could you tell?

Could you tell that this woman is more than a mother?

That’s she’s a woman, a wife, a friend, a sister, a daughter, a cousin, a human?

That her life didn’t start or end here?

But that being a mother is where she feels most at home?

And that they are her heart always will be?

Could you tell?

Could you tell from this photo, by passing her by in the street or by hearing someone else’s version of her, that she is more than this photo, this moment, the immediate summation that you may come to?

Possibly,

But probably not.

You simply can’t tell a mother’s story from a glimpse, a snap shot, a tiny snippet of what she does or does not share.

Conclusions should not be made based on what she is or is not wearing, what she is or is not driving, how hard or not she says this season is.

Conclusions should not be made at all.

Every mother has a story,

But that story is hers and only hers to tell.

Because only she knows who she was, who she is, and who she is becoming.

And only she knows the depths of her motherhood.