Mothers bend. Mothers mold.

 

When I’m at work, I keep my mind in a room. The feelings are kept in a closet, and I don’t cross anything that might make me feel what I allow myself to feel at home.

Like always, I move through my routine. Emails. Team meetings. Chats. Missed calls. In the middle of it, I step away for a moment. My headphones go on. Sometimes it’s a song, sometimes a book, sometimes nothing at all. I let the silence engulf me into small thoughts.

Hmm, remember when…
How many steps do I have so far?

Today, though, it was different.

I took a different route. One I’ve taken before, but this time I decided to really look at the structure of the building. To notice the details, I had missed.

At the end of the hall there’s a hidden corridor that lets the light in well. It’s lined with rectangular windows. When you look out, you see structures and more structures. Through one opening I can see the exit of my old culinary hall. Two culinary students are hanging out there; it takes me back to the time I burned sugar (something no student had done before) I remember chef warning us not to set off the fire alarm. I ran out that exit with my charred pot.

This is what I mean when I say I let my mind drift.

So, I look out the window again.

Then I look down.

A bird is lying quietly, motionless. Her feathers are ruffled, dirty. Her eyes resting. One foot caught in the guard. There’s a small opening in the net where she must have passed through. A pile of stick catches my eye, forming a nest just beyond her. Tucked into the corner, are two small eggs sitting there, protected.

I can’t blame my mind trying to make sense of it, “I can untie her, I can keep the eggs warm, fix it Steph.” It takes a moment, but I know she’s long gone and most likely her babies too. I sit there and I reflect. I imagine her flying in and out that opening building her nest. Getting ready to bring life into this world. Cozying up her eggs when they arrive, feeding herself. Making it her home. Always managing to get through that opening. Then one day something shifted, not much just enough.

My chest tightens, my heart sink to the bottom of my stomach.

I think what hurt the most was knowing she would have gone through that opening again.

And again.

And again.

Because on the other side of it were her babies.

No calculation. No weighing risk.
Just instinct. Just return.

That’s what motherhood is.

You pass through tight spaces.
You bend yourself into shapes you didn’t know you could make.
You squeeze through structures that were never designed for you.

And if it scrapes you,
if it exhausts you,
if it costs you

You still go back.

Because the nest is there.
Because the eggs are there.
Because
love doesn’t ask whether it is safe.

It just builds.