Every tree begins with its roots, deeply hidden beneath the earth. Invisible, yet essential for growth, strength, and survival. In the same way, my roots lie in the past: my childhood, the experiences that shaped me, the people who helped lay my foundation. Those roots quietly nourished my beliefs about love, relationships, and motherhood, long before I was even aware of it. They prepared me for storms I did not yet know I would have to endure. From those roots, the trunk grew—the core of my being, the backbone that held everything together. That trunk was motherhood: the responsibility I carried, not only for myself, but for my children. It was a phase of building, of carrying, of balancing. Of daily struggles, deepest lows, and rare, fleeting highs. This was where past and present came together. And even though I remained standing, even the strongest trunk develops cracks.
But without roots, there is no trunk. And without a trunk, there are no leaves. And that is where we are now. After the storm of the roots, after the strength and the fractures in the trunk, I feel it is time to step aside for a moment. Not for new blows or thunderclouds, but for leaves drifting gently—fragments of insight, confusion, pain, and growth. In the chapters that follow, I look back. Not as a victim. Not as a therapist. But as a human being. A mother. A woman. Sometimes sharp. Sometimes uncertain. Sometimes with humor. Sometimes with my heart in my throat. I share these leaves not to judge or to convince, but to show that reflection itself is a form of love—for yourself, for your child, and for life.
So make yourself a cup of comfort. And walk with me. ❤️
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