Met a mom and her son today. He’s autism spectrum. She’s not.
I enjoyed her. She has a large life carved from necessity, a life partner who leaves her home with the resources. Hers is a heart beating in balance, paying forward, giving time, using skills only mothers of this kind have earned.
It’s the mothering that comes through.
It cannot be helped.
I shared a few texts with my friend who battles the bottle. She’s the sweetest woman, the one who finds laughter in every failing, the person who encourages everyone around her with issues far greater than hers. She’s a stoic soul. A heart that can’t stop beating for those who have less. She is a respite volunteer, a dog rescue foster, a social worker by day, who knows all because she’s put her time in the AA pew.
There’s bravery out there.
It cannot be stopped.
Exchanged words and a glass of red with a woman, scorned, scarred, hurt, so blue. She put on a happy face for my interruption and acted strong, one foot in front of the other, measured paces on her path to renewal. She’s a little thing with a large chip on her shoulder. She’s a damsel in distress. She’s a princess waiting for the slipper. A woman who gets most what she fears; what we won’t wish for almost always comes true.
There’s a victim on every corner.
Pick your poison when you choose what you choose.
People tell her things; they cannot stop themselves.