They might test my blood.
They’ll never test the nights I stayed awake rocking babies.
They’ll never measure the panic attacks I survived sober.
They’ll never weigh the meals I forced myself to eat, or the mornings I got out of bed when depression begged me not to.
Sometimes being a good mother looks nothing like what fits inside a laboratory report.
Sometimes it looks like choosing the harder road
because your children are waiting at the end of it.
Between Bruises and Blooms 
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