The Winter Solstice is the longest night of the year. People talk about this day as a turning point and a celebration that we are moving out of darkness and toward light. No metaphor there, this is exactly what this night meant to my life. The universe planned it this way for us.
There was a life before you, a long season of searching, and a sense of sadness and loneliness I didn’t even realize I was carrying. And then there was the life that began when you arrived, a life filled with light. It was abrupt, wild, and intense. You made my heart explode and suddenly made life feel worthwhile. These two tiny babies made me see myself, for the first time, as someone who had value.
I held onto motherhood with a death grip in those early years. Yes, because I loved you, but also because something inside me had turned on. I thought it was the motherhood button everyone talks about.
You were made to be a mom.
At 7:23 and 7:24 p.m. on December 21st, I did what felt unthinkable for me. I went into a surgical room alone, had a giant needle put into my spine, and was told that I was brave. My whole life, I had believed I wasn’t brave at all. I had been afraid of everything for as long as I could remember. I didn’t understand until much later that what I feared most was being alone. And there I was, afraid and alone.
Except I wasn’t really alone. You were both with me. Your dad was on his way, and the room was filled with doctors and nurses; twin deliveries draw quite a crowd. Still, I felt alone and scared. You know the rest of the story now. You arrived healthy, impossibly tiny, the smallest babies we had ever seen. Precious in every way.
People came to visit. We were moved to a room upstairs. And then it was just us again, on the longest night of the year. Even now, when I close my eyes, I can see it clearly. The room was dark except for the hallway light trying to spill in. Dad was asleep beside us. You were peaceful, but I needed to hold you, to feel you close. I held you for most of that night, just us girls. The longest night of the year.
It takes 365 days to return to this day. I understand how time works, but time has never felt as it did that first night with you. What I thought was motherhood completing me was actually my awakening. I could live now. No more loneliness and secret sadness. I wasn't made to be a mom,
I was made to be fully me.
We have all been doing this work. For ten years, you have been creating the people you are: brave, smart, and generous with the love you give to the world. I am so proud of who you are. I hope you know it's ok to be afraid, but to never let it hold you back. Those scary things will always bring growth and perspective to your life! You are the only person who gets to live your life, live it with intention, and let your whole self shine through!
Every year, I find quiet, dark, and warm just as we did that first night. And I am reminded of how change can be gentle, intentional, and full of promise. As you grow up, I hope this night will always be a reminder of transformation and light as you continue to grow into,
whoever you will be.
All my love,
Mom
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