Around this time last year I found the wings of a Luna moth. Although it was so natural to awe at the strikingly large and beautiful wings, I couldn’t ignore the subtle ache that ran through me as I held them in my hands. The American moon moth is rarely seen by humans; they only come out at night, and their adult lives are extremely brief (only about seven days). This stunning creature is truly beautiful and truly rare and there I stood, actually holding one in the palms of my hands…but it was in pieces. Lifeless.

It’s said that the Luna moth signifies new beginnings; a continuing quest for truth and knowledge. I guess most of my life I’ve been looking for new beginnings. I learned early on that I wasn’t like everyone else, and that I didn’t fit neatly into anyone’s expectations. So I found myself constantly comparing, repeatedly trying to change, to figure out where I fit into the worlds that collided around me.

Now I’m a mother of four, and I still find myself comparing, continuously second-guessing, waiting for the next new beginning to cancel out what I did today, or yesterday, or last year…

This time of year–as schools are drawing to a close–I’ve found myself unable to check all of the boxes that the other mamas in my life are checking. Don’t get me wrong: my kids are just amazing. They are wonderfully unique in their personalities, their physical features, their joys and their dreams and their struggles. Each one of them sees the world around them so very differently. I have a son who is not neurotypical, but insanely intelligent; a daughter who is wildly creative, yet her social anxiety can get so crippling it’s hard for her to even be around family sometimes. I have an artistic, free-thinking daughter who sees beauty everywhere, and values all life down to the smallest bug. I have a son that gets so overwhelmed with joy that he squeals and gives bear hugs even though he is over six feet tall. A son that hates being the center of attention, yet is a continuous source of laughter for everyone he meets. And because of their unique personalities and anxieties and neurotypes, my kids aren’t following “typical” paths right now. And being a compulsive comparer, I feel as if I’m failing these beautiful children by not pushing them harder to have all of the typical experiences, to win all the awards, go to all the dances, hit all the teenage milestones like jobs and driving and dating.

But of course, I am no typical mama. I’m a mess. Medicated since high school, I wander most days in an exhausted haze, trying to grab at small moments of joy or clarity, and then wanting to retreat completely into the dark before I break.

My kids have been raised by a mama who often just can’t. I have broken down in front of them so many times that I fear I’m not teaching them to be strong….and they need to be. God, they need to be. This world and its people can be so dismissive and unwelcoming towards the ones who are different. Most of them will give up on you. Or forget about you. Or never really see you at all. I’ve been there. I’ve felt it.

And so I’m left here, staring down at these gorgeous wings from a stunning, rare beauty laying lifeless in my palms. In pieces.

But here’s the thing I desperately need to remember: I can’t keep comparing myself to other people. Our stories are not the same. And I can’t compare my kids to other kids. They are navigating the world in their own unique ways, and I have the absolute gift of helping them find their way through a space that is—quite honestly—not very forgiving. I’ve gotten a lot of stuff wrong as I’ve been struggling to figure this all out, but if there’s one thing my kids learn from me, I hope they know that they are seen, and that they are fiercely loved. I might not ever completely understand where they’re coming from or what they’re thinking or how they feel, but I hope they know that I try. With everything I have, I try.

I’ve spent my entire life comparing; hoping to blend in, or to stand out, or to measure up. And every time I feel my life is ugly, or not worth the struggle, God reminds me that He makes beautiful things out of the dust. And when I stop comparing, and I look at each of my babies for who they are—exactly as they were created to be—I am overwhelmed. They are simply stunning.

So to everyone out there who is not typical—if you feel like you are fighting every day just to be seen—or if you’ve already retreated because it just doesn’t feel worth it anymore, know this: There are people to whom you will always be a disappointment, because you don’t look like their expectations of you. But you are NOT disappointing, lifeless fragments. You are the elusive, stunningly beautiful Moon Moth.

And even if no one else in this world ever catches a true glimpse of exotic, queer, nonconformist you—I see you. And your Creator sees you. Every bit of you. He cradles you in His palms—especially in those moments when you feel unseen, unloved, and broken—and He whispers to all of your shattered pieces while He patiently knits you back together: “I love you, exactly as you are.”

I’ve spent the last few weeks pouring over old journals and trying to remember what you were like back then—and what I was like—and trying to figure out just when it was that you first stopped needing me. This whole journey into and through motherhood is wholly rewarding and completely heartbreaking all at once.

I remember sitting in the hospital room, only 20 hours from becoming a mother for the first time, and already missing your presence. I was astounded at the ache I felt when you left the room. It was such a strange feeling…I had carried you in my belly for 9 months, talking to you, singing to you, feeling you move, and yet I didn’t know you. I had struggled to feel any kind of connection with you, a tiny life growing and changing and becoming inside of my own. I hadn’t seen you, hadn’t touched you, hadn’t begun to even imagine what it would be like… It was the moment they laid you on my chest for the first time that changed everything. I can’t possibly explain the relief I felt, all tangled up with joy and wonder. I knew in that instant that I loved you. That I had somehow always loved you. “Hi honey…” I whispered through my tears, smiling into your little face. Jon kissed my forehead, tears falling freely, overcome. He held you for hours that first night, gazing into your face, watching you sleep with such love in his eyes. I wish I could describe how beautiful you were to us—how fiercely precious. Your father and I would sit holding you, staring into your dark eyes, memorizing your cheeks, nose, lips, tiny toes and fingers… I wish I could describe the peace I felt when you cried after your first moments in the world and Jon touched your soft skin, whispered your name, and you were instantly quiet. You knew his voice, and somehow that made everything feel all right. You needed us so desperately back then. You needed to be held, to be fed, to be rocked to sleep, to be changed and reassured and sung to in the middle of the night…

Two weeks went quickly by, and my heart still leapt every time I looked at you. You had started opening your eyes more, looking around, taking everything in, and staring at all the faces. You listened intently whenever anyone would talk to you, like you were trying to memorize everything about them. Your eyes were so captivating and so deep…I loved those moments when I would hold you and you would stare up at my face, your dark eyes searching deep into mine. My world simply turned over every time. We spent every waking moment together, you and I! And every hour of the night you were snuggled by my side.

But then you were three. Your Welsch cheeks thinned out, your hair grew down past your shoulders, and you had the most contagious laugh! You were so smart, and so full of life and had so much to say. And then I dropped you off for your first day of preschool, and as I watched your teacher take your hand and lead you away, it was like watching a piece of my heart leave. I remember spending the morning with my thoughts muffled in a surreal fog, and then I stood in the church foyer waiting to pick you up, my heart dropping down into my stomach and my eyes clouding over and my soul just aching for you. You spent all morning without me—playing without me, learning without me, meeting people I didn’t yet know—having the beginnings of your own little life apart from me. As I waited to see your beautiful face round the corner, I missed you so terribly and I wanted to squeeze you and never let go ever…And then I saw you, and watched your eyes search the crowd for me, and watched the smile form on your beautiful lips when you found me, and I knew I couldn’t stop you from growing. It made me excited for you, thinking about all the things you would learn, and all of the life you would experience, but it wrecked me to realize how badly I wanted to be there for every second of it. It was already time to start loosening my grip, to open my mama’s arms and begin releasing you—moment by little moment—out into the world. And I wasn’t ready. I had no idea how to start letting you go.

I still don’t. So many years and so many moments have passed since those early years; one day tumbling after the next in a dizzying fog of joy and heartache. And once again I find myself standing in a surreal haze, watching you walk across that stage at Cumberland Valley High School in your cap and gown, with that beautiful smile on your face. You have grown into an astonishing young lady, with a smile that lights up every room, and those same brown eyes that search deep and listen long… I catch glimpses of you sometimes that spark memories of that 4-year-old that would throw her arms around me and say “oh, mommy, I just love you SOOO much. Let me give you a hug!” You would brush the tip of your nose against my cheek, and when I remember it my breath catches and my heart aches and I just don’t know where all of that time went. I was going to savor it; all of it. Every moment. I was going to breathe deep while the laughter was sweet and the cuddles were endless. But already some of the sweetest memories are fading, and it makes me so sad in the deepest parts of my heart to let them go. But in this bittersweet dance of motherhood, I look at you, sweet girl—beautiful, kindhearted, spirit filled you—and I am so thrilled to watch where you go from here. It has been my greatest joy to be your mama all of these tenderfooted years—whether you needed me or not. And in the years to come, there may still be a day when you need to be held, or reassured, or to hear daddy’s voice and know everything’s going to be all right. But for now, I’ll just stand here and watch as you go, completely heartbroken yet wholly rewarded.

These seeds,

dropped long ago from the shaker-pods of the giant that overlooks the dry West African savannah. Those towering, spreading branches that birth lacy leaves, flame flowers, and long shaker pods browning, opening, discarding seeds onto the earth…

Seeds heavy with memory.

These seeds,

fallen onto the red arid soil where my desperate fingers found them long ago. I remember caressing each seed, sliding them against my fingertips. I enclosed them tightly in my palm, begging time to stand still, and then I abandoned them to the clink of a small glass bottle

and carried them with me over oceans.

These seeds

lay in quiet slumber within that precious bottle—that tiny glass vial—brought along with me in pockets, suitcases, boxes filled with clothes and books and other forgotten things.

Today I found them. Those precious seeds in that worn glass bottle. I emptied them into my hand, pleading for them to have been preserved somehow,

to have kept my memories buried, immobile, safe…

…to have stayed just as I imagined they were,

suspended not in my hand but back somewhere across oceans, under a Flame Tree, encasing my childhood, my heart, my grief so delicately within the smoothness of their hard, striped shell…How much have I kept buried in one small seed,

a desperate piece of home carried over oceans in a fragile bottle.

These seeds…

I once had dreams of planting them somewhere; someplace I might stay, might submerge my own roots…

Somewhere I might call home. Where I would finally take those seeds from their bottle and plant them deep in the soil, where they could release all of those memories and all of that anger and grief and confusion and plunge it all deep, deeper…

I am so weary of carrying them. I am exhausted of gazing at them through weathered glass, so desperately tired of holding them too tightly in my hands

as if I could have ever possibly captured and encased my whole life and all of my dreams and all my memories within their tiny womb…

These seeds…

I once had dreams of planting them. But they will probably never grow.

I have carried them too long over oceans in a bottle.

Midnight, while everyone sleeps, the tightening begins. I pull my aching body into bed, heavy with child and desperate for sleep.

Wait, baby girl. Mama is tired.

3 am, deep night, the tightening comes harder, faster. I can no longer lay still. I rise, I lay back down. I rise, I lay back down. …

Wait, baby girl. The hour is too early.

5:30, quiet dark of early morning, the tightening becomes unbearable. I wake my companion, and we begin our journey on the dark, deserted road. The tightening again, the urge to bear down…

Wait, baby girl. We’re not there yet.

It’s almost dawn when they send me–alone and weary–to an empty back room.

Wait, baby girl. Please wait. It’s almost time.

Dawn breaks at that moment, and you are desperate to come. The sharpness of the tightening, the bearing down without will, the scream for help…

WAIT, BABY GIRL! I can’t do this alone!

Water breaks as your head pushes through. Shaking violently with adrenaline and hot tears, I am blinded by my fear, but I reach down, grab your arms and pull your body from my own.

Oh, baby girl…breathe. Please breathe.

It’s going to be okay.

“Mama’s here,” I whisper into your cheek as your cries fill the small room. I hold you close, still trembling. My tears fall fast, mingling with yours on your tiny face.

Sweet baby girl, I’m here. You are fierce, you are beautiful, and I will hold you forever.

It’s sixteen years later when you enter the room. You are tall, and you are lovely, and you are stronger than you know. The tightening grasps my heart, deeper, richer.

Wait, baby girl. Please wait.

Our time is passing too quickly…

2019 has rolled through faster than any year before it. I have awoken each day, inhaled deep breaths, vowed to slow down and take one day at a time, and yet here we are. The year is drawing to a close, and I can only look back and wonder where it went. We had some really big changes in our family this year, and normally I would have had at least 3 major breakdowns at this point, but this year was different somehow. Normally I shut down. I curl up. I close off. I welcome the deep dark. But not this time. I don’t know if it has come easier with the dulling of years rolling by, or whether I’m just learning to embrace who I am…Maybe both? I’ve learned a lot about myself this year, and I guess I’m finally old enough to just admit it. I’m a mess. I’m an anxious, emotional wreck, and I probably always will be. I will never have a 10 step plan for a successful future, or model perfect values for my kids. I will probably never get an appropriate amount of sleep, or quit drinking coffee and eating sugar. But I guess the good part of finally being able to embrace that about myself is that I can stop comparing myself to everyone else that has it all together. And when I finally stop comparing, I can finally stop seeing myself as a failure. I can finally just be me. I’m a hot mess with no plan for my future and no idea how I’m going to make it through tomorrow, but you know what? I’m still married to the guy I fell in love with 20 years ago; my kids still love me despite my flaws, and we all still laugh together sometimes. So even though 2019 felt like a train wreck, I’ve decided to call it a win. We didn’t go on any family hikes or visit really cool places during this holiday break, but I did share a moment the other day with my youngest son as he tried Digestive biscuits for the first time. I told him stories of eating them after school when we would walk home in the warm West-African rain, and he smiled. It’s a sweet memory I wouldn’t trade for all the well-planned outings in the world. Here’s to 2020.

For the past two days, I’ve been washing and sorting boxes upon boxes of baby and toddler clothes to give away. These tiny fabrics enrobed my two daughters when they were tiny, when they were carefree, when they looked at me as though I were the very air they breathed. Oh the memories in each little sleeper I carefully fold…I can almost see their small sweet faces, giggling with each other while they play and grow and imagine how life would one day be … and now suddenly they are teenagers, desperately trying to find their place in this treacherously confusing life. God if it were only as simple as this again…as simple as feeding and changing diapers and just holding them until the crying stops…

I find myself setting aside certain items: the hat Kaela wore when her toddler toes ran through the Cape May sand, the polka dot dress Bayley used to love to wear with her striped tights… Soon my pile to keep is taller than my pile to give. But why am I keeping these? Their grown faces flash in front of me and I know I am desperately trying to hang on to the memories of joy at it’s simplest. But my girls won’t be babies again. They will never again be the carefree toddlers running through our yard and finding worms to bring home. They will never again line up their toy animals on the basement stairs…And it’s okay for me to mourn that. But rather than grasping at piles of old clothes—rather than holding their memories tight-fisted and melancholy—I decide in this moment to smile over who my girls once were, and find excitement in who they are becoming. And these clothes—these dresses, these sweaters and hats—they can enrobe new littles with a whole new set of sweet memories to be made. Just like mine.

So I carefully refold each item and place them back in the boxes to be given away. With each fold I pray for new blessings, new babies, new memories—wherever these precious fabrics may end up. And as for me and my daughters, well, maybe they do still giggle together from time to time, and dream of how life will one day be. And maybe—just maybe—it’s still sometimes as simple as just holding them until the crying stops.