We were in the kitchen, just baking.

Nothing fancy—just one of those quiet, ordinary afternoons that feels safe. But all of a sudden, I felt something shift.

Her body language changed.

Her face dropped.

And even though she said she was okay, I knew she wasn’t.

It reminded me of something I’ve never quite put into words until now:

When I was a little girl, I would get quiet like that too.

Not loud. Not defiant. Just… off.

Something in my spirit would dip, and no one would notice.

Or if they did, they’d ask once and move on.

I learned early how to hold pain in a way that looked polite.

I still haven’t unlearned all of it.

So this time, with my daughter, I didn’t push.

I didn’t force her to explain something she didn’t have language for yet.

I just stayed close.

Later, she told me that something I said—something meant in love—had still hurt her little heart.

And I just held her.

Because I know how much it means to have someone stay.

Not fix.

Not dismiss.

Just stay.

With you.

In it.

That moment has been sitting with me all week.

Not because it was dramatic, but because it wasn’t.

It was soft.

And still, it reached something deep in me that’s been waiting a long time to be mothered like that.

The truth is, a lot of us are learning how to give what we never got.

That doesn’t mean we blame.

It just means we notice.

And we choose a new way.

I’m still learning how to offer care without condition.

How to hold space without answers.

How to pause long enough to let someone else’s truth rise gently to the surface.

I’ve been thinking about how many of us are walking around with stories that never got witnessed.

Feelings we never felt safe enough to feel.

Moments where we needed someone to stay—and no one did.

So I just want to say:

I see you.

And I know that weight.

The one you learned to carry so quietly, people thought you were okay.

The one you thought was your fault, so you never dared name it.

The one that flares up sometimes in your parenting, your partnership, your stillness.

You’re not imagining it.

It’s real.

And it deserves care.

Not just for your kids.

For you too.

I’m hosting the caregiver workshop to help model what care can look like in real life. I’d be honored if you joined me for an hour long session. You’ll leave feeling more equipped, more affirmed, and more clear.

And maybe, just maybe — a little more healed too.