There is a kind of silence that only exists after something has already shifted. Not the kind that feels peaceful. Not the kind that lets you rest. This kind presses in on you. It sits heavy in your chest and lingers in the corners of the room long after everything else has gone still. I noticed it one evening standing in my kitchen. The house was quiet. The kind of quiet that feels unnatural when you are used to noise, to movement, to constant demand. The overhead light cast

Everything I know about love, I learned from its absence. Everything I know about nurturing, I learned from what was withheld. A reflection on the hard work of becoming the mother I needed, the pride of staying accountable, and the power of realizing you have become the shelter