TRANSCRIPT
I’m feeling poetic and romantic this day, and rightly so, for as the snow falls outside, and wearing my favorite turtleneck sweater, I cozy up to my keyboard.

And in honoring the theme of this month, I reflect on a very personal topic: Motherhood. I turn within as I continue to ponder my big why.

Often I speak of vulnerability. Reference the value we each have as the individuals we are. Thoughts that, as I struggle with what to say in this narrative, prompt me to reflect on the 1000s of strangers I now call friends. Inspired to think about the last decade and the diversity of opinions, revealed histories, and heartfelt moments that have been trusted to me… And yes… beyond humbled I am.

I think of the attacks I’ve bore regarding my beliefs, my observations, and at times, my very existence. But even in those, I see a catalyst to not just better understanding myself; but more importantly, to better understand those who have expressed vengeance toward me.

You see, we are all a most imperfect species… and although highly intelligent, able to express emotions at their fullest, and gifted with the power to reason, why is it that somehow we still find ways to diminish our own worth, or to point the finger.

Yet, in it all can be found one unavoidable constant that began us: The fact we were all born from a bleeding womb, and passing out of it, we all took the first breath of living our lives.

Then comes all the stuff. The seeking the perfect place, moment, or that craved acceptance for who we are. And to that, mix in a little society, some long-developed culture, and the spice of religion—and before we know it, we can easily feel as if… we don’t measure up. The mirror of our own reflection pixelated as we spend our lifetimes working to tighten the spaces. Our whys, when’s, and who’s shifting in and out of focus as we make both good and terrible choices.

Yet back to the constant, I’m pulled—and no matter what angle I look at it from, or how I deal with my own junk—she is always dead center and there: The mother who birthed me, and in that, a first breath I can’t remember.

We add our God… our views of where we are going… our needs in how we live, and the sugar on top, the whys we seek. We explore the meaning of faith and as we do, we quest— feel ecstasy and agony as we process whispers from inside and out.

The whys morph to who’s, hows, what’s, and when’s. Yet, in reality, we are all on a similar journey. Traveling to an end where we desire an ultimate peace— the knowledge that our existence mattered.

And yes, again, the first breath inhales… as with eyes closing and hearts questioning… we transition. The gates to that resting place closer as we lean into the face of why we were here.

And Once more… yes: This human walk is indeed a beautiful thing. A gift we have each received—regardless of our outlook, our attraction, our race, religion, or culture.

In the center of it all, she sits. The conceiver who brought us into this complex world, the mothers who carried us.

Out of her body, we emerged, and whether her choices were good or bad in how she nurtured, we must honor the gift she has bestowed on us…

…The snow banks are depending, as inside a warm home, I take refuge. My own 97-year-old mother upstairs, as dementia and bedridden, and myself still working to resolve my upbringing, I shed a tear. For imperfect she was… and still is. But as I lift her 75 pounds to the wheelchair that moves her, and to all of us looking at the mothers who made us, a closing set of thoughts come to my heart. Perhaps reflections we can each apply to the persons we are becoming: Simply… Thank you mom… or if strangled by injustices of the past, a most powerful healer: Forgiveness.

So it is to the women and mothers of the world, I take pause. And as I do, may we all do the same as we unite in a shared tribute, for without you, we would not exist.