A Forever Love

We grow up dreaming about love.

The kind we’re told will sweep us off our feet, fill the empty spaces, and last forever. We imagine romance, partnership, and someone choosing us every single day.

But no one really prepares you for the love of being a mom.

It doesn’t arrive with grand gestures or perfect timing. It arrives quietly, wrapped in responsibility and awe, and somehow becomes the strongest love you will ever know. It’s the kind of love that rewrites you—mind, body, and soul.

The love of being a mom is different.

It’s the love you feel before you ever hold them. The love that lives in your chest and aches when you think about all you want to protect them from. It’s fierce and gentle all at once. It’s knowing you would give up everything you are just to keep them safe.

For me, this love didn’t come easily.

What started as month to month hoping slowly turned into three and a half years of waiting. Of longing. Of heartbreak quietly taking its role in my story. Month after month of wanting a love I couldn’t yet touch. Learning patience through tears. Learning strength through silence.

Then came Christmas 2018.

In one breathless moment, everything changed. I remember staring at that test, frozen—then completely unraveling. The kind of ugly happy cry that takes over your whole body. Tears streaming, hands shaking, snot and all. No grace. No composure. Just years of heartbreak pouring out at once, as joy finally took its place. That was the moment hope became real.

From that day on, my heart was no longer just mine.

And when I first heard my boys cry—

When I first saw their faces, their tiny smiles, their searching eyes—I fell head over heels. Not in a way that fades. Not in a way that wavers. But in a way that rooted itself deep inside me.

This love shows up in the smallest moments.

It’s in the way they hug me when I’m sad, as if they can feel my heart hurting.

It’s in the laughter and giggles that fill the house and remind me that joy can be simple.

It’s in our dance parties in the kitchen, music always playing, moving without care or rhythm—just us, just love.

It’s in little arms running to me when they’re hurt or scared, trusting me completely.

It’s waking up to “Mommy, I love you.”

It’s random Eskimo kisses, sticky hands, and the quiet understanding that I am their safe place.

Being a mommy means carrying their hearts with you everywhere you go. It means loving them on the good days and the hard ones. It means growing alongside them, learning patience, grace, and forgiveness in ways you never imagined.

And to the ones who are still waiting for this love—I see you.

I see the quiet prayers, the hopeful tests, the brave faces you put on while carrying a weight no one else can see. I see the way you love children already, the way your heart softens at tiny shoes, laughter, and dreams that haven’t found you yet.

Your heart already knows how to love like this.

The waiting does not make you less worthy. It does not mean you are failing or being overlooked. It simply means your story is still unfolding. Love does not always come when we ask it to, and it rarely comes the way we expect—but it does not forget the hearts that are ready, willing, and full of so much love to give.

The love of a mommy is forever.

It stretches beyond exhaustion, beyond fear, beyond the doubts you whisper to yourself late at night. It grows in the waiting, deepens in the hoping, and becomes stronger than anything you thought you were capable of holding.

And once you feel it—

when it finally finds its way to you—you understand why your heart had to learn patience first.

There is no love quite like it. 🤍