I don’t think my heart will ever feel finished

 I don’t think my heart will ever feel finished.

There’s always this quiet wondering.
Could I do it again?
Another baby smell.
Another first cry.
Another little hand wrapped around my finger.

And then reality answers back.

My arms are already full.
My patience is thin in the ways only exhaustion can make it.
My body has carried, given, healed, repeated.
My mind is tired in a way sleep doesn’t fix.

Both things can be true.
Wanting more.
Knowing you’re done.

No one really talks about that middle space.
The grief that comes without a loss.
Mourning children you’ll never meet
while loving the ones in front of you with everything you have.

It’s not selfish.
It’s not ungrateful.
It’s motherhood.

A heart that keeps expanding
even when the body and life say
this is all you can hold.

And somehow
that knowing
still hurts. 

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