My Cup Runneth Over

Mother’s Day is, without question, my most cherished day of the year. It is not the cards or the flowers that move me, but the invitation I’m given to reflect.

Becoming a mother was a conscious and deeply personal decision—a sacred leap into the unknown. Despite everything that didn’t make sense, the odds stacked against us, I knew only that I was ready to love in a way that would demand all of me—my breath, my bones, my memories, and every version of my becoming self.

Mother’s Day, for me, is food, music, and dirt under my nails from potting basil or lavender. It’s laughter on a picnic blanket, sun-drenched parks, grilled vegetables, and piano music in the air. These moments refill me. They bring me back to myself.

In darker moments, days like this remind me of the things that tether me—my anchors in fragility. The people who’ve held me through my unraveling and loved me whole give me light. While my best friend and partner in life, forever thoughtful, becomes the quiet guardian of my joy.

This is abundance. This is grace. Breaking bread around the table, music in the background, shelter overhead, and most of all, love that does not waver. Love that is mutual, profound, and unafraid.

My children—these incredible souls I once carried—astonish me. I am endlessly proud of them. They are my teachers, my mirrors, my legacy. They will never fully grasp the magnitude of what they’ve taught me, nor how deeply I admire the people they are becoming. But still, I hope they will always feel my love folded into their lives.

Mother’s Day reminds me I have everything I once dreamed of: belonging, meaning, and a love that says—I am here. I always will be.