I fear that I’ll fail my loved ones. That I will leave, that I will be inconstant. That I will turn my face away when they need my eyes, staring back into theirs.

I’m afraid that when they need my attention most I’ll be pouring it into something else. Maybe not a wine glass, but some personal project that I’m currently consumed by. I’ll be sunk so deeply into my own concerns that I won’t be able to take a moment to be there for theirs.

I dread I will I ask too much of my loves, that I won’t be able to bring my own desires to heel.

People are inconstant. And I am a person.

As a child, I think I thought that everyone around us must be managing life better than we did. I think I learned it was safer to keep my hot shame to myself to avoid judgement. To avoid rejection.

But the truth is, everyone struggles.

We hold our struggles close, hidden inside elegant overcoats. We live, stepping carefully around them, and these negative spaces shape the dance of our lives. The way we dance, the shape of our lives sometimes reveals the sore parts that we imagine others cannot see.

When a mother gives, does she lose?

Or does she gain, in the giving?

At times it feels like an either-or choice; will I be true to myself, or will I sacrifice myself to serve the hungry needs of my children.

The truth is, this fear is fear of a bogeyman, a fearful bedtime story I tell myself. It’s a creation of my fear of falling.

But I’ve already fallen, and when I do, they’re there, kissing my skinned knees.