“Oh no.”
Those were the first words I uttered when my second born was laid on my chest for the first time. It’s not that anything was wrong— I had a 4 hour labor and a water birth. He was obviously healthy and breathing.
But as soon as I heard his cry, I knew I was in trouble.
When his brother was born 3 years earlier, he had a soft, gentle cry. He was easy to soothe and slept wonderfully. But something about this new cry, that was deep and surprisingly loud for a child only a minute old, warned me that I might experience an entirely new side of motherhood.
Even with an easygoing, sleep-loving firstborn, I struggled though postpartum and the early years of motherhood. It felt as though I had been tossed into the sea and I struggled to stay afloat, unsure of what direction land would be found.
When I regained my footing, we decided to grow our family, thinking my experience with one child would set me up for another.
Well, I was wrong. And I found myself being tossed into the sea all over again.
The tedious routine and sleeplessness nearly crushed me. I stopped making art. Everyday held little moments of joy, but my identity went from artist and writer to diaper changer and milk machine.
But then my 4-year-old took a picture without my knowledge, and a shift began.
At the end of the day, I would sometimes go through my phone and delete whatever random pictures my firstborn took, usually a burst of photos of the dining table or a pile of toys on the floor. But today, I saw something special. Unposed, but somehow perfect. I was sitting on the floor like I did every single day with his little baby brother on my lap. I was taking off his shoes in the middle of a mess on the floor. And I just stared at this photo because it was the first time that I could see the work I was doing. It wasn’t just a mundane task: it was holy work. It was motherhood.
I turned this photo into art, one of the first pieces I’d created in years. The process of making it was healing in a way, redeeming the sleepless nights and messy home and endless laundry. Each stroke reminded me of the value of the unseen work I’ve done all these years.
After sharing this artwork, I found that it resonated with other mothers who need the reminder that the work we do is holy. I’ve turned this moment into art that you can hold and give to the mother in the middle of the ordinary. For the friend who just had a baby. For anyone who needs a reminder that the small, invisible moments have immeasurable value.
Dear mama,
WHAT YOU DO IS HOLY.
Click here to order a print, card, or digital download of this artwork.
The original photo by my 4-year-old
Disclaimer: no AI is ever used in my writing or art. I’ve always used dashes in my writing and that’s not going to change.