The Hands That Held Me
May 13, 2025
There are moments in life that mark us—not with a dramatic event, but with a quiet truth.
This is a story about hands.
The ones that rocked me when I was small. The ones that didn’t always know how to hold gently, but did the best they could. The ones I longed for in moments of fear or change. And then, one day, the hands that became mine—the ones that would hold a baby of my own.
Mothering doesn’t begin with birth. It begins with remembering what it means to be held. To feel safe. To feel seen. And for many of us, that memory is complicated.
Some of us were held with warmth. Others with tension. Some not at all. But somewhere, deep inside, we carry an imprint of what it means to nurture and to be nurtured.
When I became a mother, I realized I wasn’t just learning how to care for a baby. I was learning how to mother myself. To pick up the pieces of old patterns and reassemble them with intention. To offer softness where I once felt scarcity. To listen to what I needed, and to meet those needs with as much grace as I could.
There were nights I felt like I was failing. Days I wanted someone else to come hold me. But slowly, over time, I became the hands I needed.
To all the women in the middle of re-mothering themselves—while raising children, caring for others, or simply learning how to be gentle with their own hearts—I see you.
You don’t have to do it perfectly. You just have to keep showing up.
You are both the healing and the homecoming.
If this spoke to you, I invite you to go deeper with me:
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