She is one of my homes

We come from many places.
Some are streets and cities.
Others are names and memories.
But one of my homes will always be the woman who became my mother.

Before I had a name, she gave me her heartbeat.
Before I opened my eyes, she opened her arms.
Before I could ask for anything, she already knew what I needed.

A mother is not just the beginning. She is the middle and the quiet in between.
She is the blanket on cold nights, the whisper behind your courage,
the warm meal that waits no matter how late you come back.

She was there when I took my first step—and every step since,
even if I didn’t always see her.
Even if I didn’t always understand how much she gave up
so I could grow up.

She carried me before I knew the weight of anything.
And even now, when the world feels heavy,
just hearing her voice makes everything lighter.

She is one of my homes.
The kind that doesn’t show up on a map,
but lives in my skin, my choices, my love.

If you still have your mother near—hold her tighter today.
And if you carry her only in your heart,
know that she still lives in everything you are. 

GK