They say a mother should be a still pond,
but she is the ocean.
Watch her:
waves of fury when the world tries to shrink her daughter,
tides of tenderness when her son whispers “I’m scared,”
hurricanes of hope when the night feels infinite.
She sheds the imitation designer armor,
lets her stretch marks ripple like topography maps,
her wrinkles etching sonnets of survival.
In her chaos, there’s a cosmos—
a galaxy of mismatched Legos,
half-drunk coffee cups,
and “I love yous” yelled over math homework.
Her freedom roars, not in spite of the mess,
but because of it…
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