For As Long As I Breathe

I want to protect them. I know I have to let go.

Sometimes I look at my children and feel something tighten inside me.

Nothing is wrong. They are fine. I am fine.

And still, there is a sadness that rises without warning.

It feels like love remembering that it cannot protect forever.

I think this is the part no one prepares you for; that motherhood doesn’t just add to your life. It takes something too.

It takes your ease. Your sense of safety. Your ability to love without fear.

More than two decades ago, when I first found out I was pregnant, I didn’t know this yet.

I was happy. Excited. Naive.

I had no idea what it was the beginning of.

I didn’t know then that joy could quietly rearrange your life.

Very slowly, without me noticing, my world stopped being only about me.

From then on, there has always been a part of me that is watchful.

Not anxious. Just aware.

Like something precious has been placed in my care - something I could never afford to stop holding.

I don’t think about it constantly. But it never really leaves.

Even when everything is fine, there is a part of me waiting.

That is what loving a child did to me.

My mind is never fully quiet anymore. There is always a quiet undercurrent of care, of imagining, of worry.

Even when I sleep, I am listening.

At night, I wake up suddenly.

Sometimes they have called out. Sometimes they haven’t.

It doesn’t matter.

I am awake either way. Already moving. Already reaching for them.

It took me time to understand the depth of this love.

And along with that love comes guilt.

A constant, familiar weight.

Two human beings exist in the world because of me.

And that knowing never really leaves.

What if I fail them?

What if I already have?

These thoughts come quietly. In pauses. In ordinary moments.

I replay things I said. Things I didn’t say.

Times I was tired when they needed more.

I remember the early days; holding them and wondering if I was enough. If I was doing it right.

I thought that fear would fade as they grew.

It didn’t.

It simply changed its shape.

Now it is harder to name. Less visible. But heavier.

I love them in a way that makes me feel exposed. As if the world can reach me through them.

And because I am human, because I get tired, worn down, stretched thin, there are moments when I fall short.

I lose patience. I speak too quickly. I let exhaustion speak louder than care.

I apologise.

I mean it.

Still, the guilt lingers.

Because this is my first time being a parent. I learnt with the first child. And then the second one came along and reminded me that love does not follow rules.

So I learnt again. And doubted myself again.

There are days when my heart feels too full.

When I want to say - I can’t hold any more. Please don’t give me one more thing to worry about.

But I don’t.

Because this love does not loosen its grip.

They will hurt me.

They will pull away.

They will keep parts of themselves from me.

And that will hurt in ways I didn’t expect.

Still, I stay.

And this is the truth I don’t say out loud very often:

In my darkest moments, when I feel empty, when I wonder if anyone would notice if I was gone :

I think of them.

Their faces. Their voices. The way they once needed me completely.

And that is enough to keep me here.

Because no one will ever love them the way I do. No one will ever worry for them the way I do. No one will ever stay the way I do.

I am not perfect. I am not endless. I am human.

But I am still here.

And I will be - for as long as I breathe.