Her Becoming

For El, and all my sisters who became mothers before me.

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I have watched goddesses take shape
in worn sweatpants,
with unbrushed hair,
rocking miracles in the crook of one arm
while heating leftovers with the other.

They used to dance under moonlight,
shot glasses in hand,
hearts untethered,
singing louder than their fears.
Now, they whisper lullabies
to the beat of a newborn’s breath.
A softer music,
but no less wild.

This is not a loss.
It is a shedding.
A firelight baptism.
The maiden weeps as she disappears,
but oh, how the mother rises.

No one told us that strength
would one day sound like
“I haven’t slept but I’m okay”
or look like
stretch marks that bloom like constellations
across a belly that held the universe.

You weep now, daily.
So does the earth.
So did every mother
when she cracked open
and found herself on the other side,
not broken,
but remade.

Your body built a temple.
Now you live inside it.
And I—
I stand on the other side of the threshold,
watching you with reverence,
not envy.
For I know,
one day,
I too will burn down my girlhood
to make room for the mother.

And when that time comes,
may I be as brave as you.
May I love as loudly.
May I hold my former self
with both grief and grace,
and know that I did not lose her.
I grew her.

You are not less than you were.
You are so much more.
You are layered, lit,
a little bit undone
and still wholly you. 

This is the becoming.
And my love for you and that bundle in your arms
multiplies like your child’s cells once did,
in quiet, miraculous ways.
Sacred.
Spilled-over.
Uncontainable.

by Sydney Nelson