Some days I mother from a place of overflow

 Some days I mother from a place of overflow.

The coffee is still warm, the house is mostly clean, and I’ve slept just enough to string a full sentence together. I breathe deep, I respond softly, I pour out love like I’ve got an endless well inside me.

Other days? I mother from scraps.

From the broken places. From the part of me that’s trying not to yell even though no one is listening. From the part of me that’s tired of being touched, talked to, and needed all at once.

But both kinds of days still count.

Because love doesn’t only live in the gentle moments. Sometimes it lives in the choosing. In the “I’m trying.” In the “I’m still here.”

My kids won’t remember which days were easy for me.

They’ll remember that I kept showing up. Even when I felt empty.

And maybe that’s the kind of love that matters most.