The Beautiful Tired

 “The Beautiful Tired”

I remember the mornings,
when dawn came too soon,
and the nights that felt endless,
beneath a pale moon.

The sink full of dishes,
the laundry piled high,
tiny feet padding
with soft sleepy cries.

I was tired each morning,
and weary each night,
but that kind of tired
was proof I did right.

For tiredness meant
I was rocking to sleep,
reading one more story,
kneeling down on my knees.

It meant I was present,
not letting days pass,
I was holding onto moments
that vanish too fast.

Now I watch from the porch
as the years roll away,
and the children I raised
are raising today.

I’d give back the hours,
the sleepless, the worn,
for the love in those seasons
was where joy was born.

So if you are weary,
with little ones near,
know that the tired you feel
is the love they will hear.

And someday, like me,
you’ll look back and know—
the tired was fleeting,
but the love made it so.