I thought the birth of my son would be beautiful. Holy, even. It was the worst day of my life. Twenty-four hours of labor followed by an emergency C-section. My blood pressure crashed and I could feel myself slipping away. I told my husband goodbye And that I was sorry. There was nothing left in me to fight with.
But I lived. I wasn’t the second wife he lost. I wasn’t another mother my daughter had to grieve. Still, postpartum was a shadow I couldn’t shake. Some days I disappeared beneath the weight of it. But somewhere in that haze, when Zion was almost one, I picked up a paintbrush.
And I kept nursing. Those were the moments that tethered me to my body. Quiet, sacred moments. The rhythm of his breath. His tiny hands resting against me. While the world spun and I spun with it, nursing felt like gravity. Like a lifeline. A single, golden thread pulling me back to myself.
Now he’s two. He only nurses once a day, right before bed. The end is near. It’s not just a transition. It’s a kind of death. But not all endings are tragedies.
Because even in the unraveling, there was sweetness. Even in the darkest hours my body nurtured both of us. As I gave, it gave back.
Motherhood isn't just nurture.
It's perseverance.
It's not just softness.
It's fire.
This piece is a reflection of my story, and maybe yours.
Whatever version of milk and fire you tell,
this piece sees you.
It’s survival. It's transformation. It's milk and fire.
30×40 Mixed Media and Oil on canvas, wired and ready to hang.
I thought the birth of my son would be beautiful. Holy, even. It was the worst day of my life. Twenty-four hours of labor followed by an emergency C-section. My blood pressure crashed and I could feel myself slipping away. I told my husband goodbye And that I was sorry. There was nothing left in me to fight with.
But I lived. I wasn’t the second wife he lost. I wasn’t another mother my daughter had to grieve. Still, postpartum was a shadow I couldn’t shake. Some days I disappeared beneath the weight of it. But somewhere in that haze, when Zion was almost one, I picked up a paintbrush.
And I kept nursing. Those were the moments that tethered me to my body. Quiet, sacred moments. The rhythm of his breath. His tiny hands resting against me. While the world spun and I spun with it, nursing felt like gravity. Like a lifeline. A single, golden thread pulling me back to myself.
Now he’s two. He only nurses once a day, right before bed. The end is near. It’s not just a transition. It’s a kind of death. But not all endings are tragedies.
Because even in the unraveling, there was sweetness. Even in the darkest hours my body nurtured both of us. As I gave, it gave back.
Motherhood isn't just nurture.
It's perseverance.
It's not just softness.
It's fire.
This piece is a reflection of my story, and maybe yours.
Whatever version of milk and fire you tell,
this piece sees you.
It’s survival. It's transformation. It's milk and fire.
30×40 Mixed Media and Oil on canvas, wired and ready to hang.