The Sound of Becoming
Some days, motherhood feels like standing in the middle of a storm you once prayed for. The laughter, the footsteps, the chaos — they’re all proof of life, yet there are moments when I can barely hear myself beneath it all.
Lately, I’ve been impatient. Edgy. I notice it in my tone, in the sharpness that leaks through my love. The mornings start before dawn. I sip warm water with lemon while the world still blurs between dark and light, and for a brief moment, everything feels suspended — quiet, soft, almost holy. Then the day begins. The boys fill the house with movement — questions, needs, small explosions of emotion. And while I know it’s all part of the beauty, there are days it feels like I’m dissolving into the rhythm of everyone else’s needs.
I used to think peace meant silence, but motherhood taught me that silence is a luxury — and sometimes, even a trap. I’ve learned to find stillness in motion instead: in the swirl of steam from my morning shower, in the scent of citrus and skin, in the sound of my own breath between two small hands tugging at me.
There’s a tenderness in that contradiction — the woman who longs for solitude and the mother who is never alone. The part of me that wants to hold the world, and the part that just wants to be held.
Every night, when the house finally exhales, I light a small candle in the kitchen. The flame flickers against the glass, and I feel it mirror something inside me — fragile, alive, persistent. In that dim light, I remember that sensuality doesn’t belong to perfect moments. It lives in the ordinary ones — in the warmth of water, the scent of my hair oil, the quiet act of coming home to myself.
The woman in me hasn’t disappeared beneath the roles. She’s just quieter now — listening instead of performing, watching instead of rushing. She’s there in the way I fold the laundry, the way I close the light at night, the way I look at myself in the mirror and whisper, you’re still here.
I’m beginning to understand that becoming isn’t something that happens once. It’s a sound — soft, constant, like the hum of life itself. It’s the heartbeat beneath the noise, the breath between chaos and calm, the grace of returning to yourself — again and again.
Because stillness isn’t the absence of sound.
It’s the choice to hear your own rhythm through it.
If these words resonate with you — if you, too, are learning to hold contradictions with grace — you can step inside my atelier. Each week, I share my private journal entries, unfiltered reflections, and quiet rituals inside my Patreon space. It’s where I write the things I rarely say out loud.