Between Bruises and Blooms

They say a mother is born with her child,
But mine was forged in storms.

In hospital lights,
In whispered prayers,
In fear that stole my breath.

She was born
When I chose courage
Even while shaking.

She was born
When exhaustion became routine,
And love became instinct.

She was born
Holding babies with one arm,
And holding herself together with the other.

I am not perfect.
Some days I barely feel enough.

But every bedtime story,
Every bottle,
Every kiss on sleepy foreheads
Is another reminder—

The woman I worried I’d never become
Was quietly growing
All along.