Just Adults, Still

I've always been appreciative of Mother's Day. I am genuinely fortunate. I have an amazing mom and a lovely mother-in-law. I have women throughout my life who mothered me in ways that mattered—my high school advisor, Connie, chief among them. I have friends who have become spectacular mothers. Each year I send texts to these women, and I mean every one.

So I've mostly thought of Mother's Day as a full and grateful day. And as much as I've contemplated how hard it must be for some people, I’ll admit I’ve always assumed the tension lived in a complicated relationship with their own mother.

But here I am. Multiple years of marriage and life—and I'm not a mom. Not in the traditional sense at least.

We called to make a reservation for Mother’s Day lunch recently, and the woman on the other end asked: how many children, how many adults?

Just adults, still.

There are moments when it hits harder than others. That was one of them.

I spend a lot of time thinking about what it means to be a safe place for people—both in leadership and in life. The idea that before people can do their best, they have to feel held. Known. Like they can bring their whole selves. I believe that's true for the teachers I lead and the kids in our halls. And I think I understood it instinctively because I've been on the receiving end of it.

So when I sit with the question of what it means to be a mom, I don't land in a simple place. The both/and is hard. But it's where most of the true things live.

Earlier this year I wrote about a funeral that stayed with me longer than I expected. One thing from that day I keep coming back to is the idea that some things in life require a language bigger than ordinary sentences.

This Mother's Day, I found myself reaching for a poem. I couldn’t find it. So I wrote it.

Just Adults, Still

Just adults, still.
Well. Sort of. Not really.

There are things you envision.
Plans you make. And then there's your life—
the unplanned, the unenvisioned.
And still.

Still, there are t-ball games and birthday parties
and then the best three o'clock nap.
White sofas and hard edges
and a porch full of small feet.
A moment of reprieve we offer to the people we love—
of course we don't mind.
We need them too.

So yes.
Just adults, still.
And also—
so much life.
so much joy.
so much grief.
so much gratitude.