Happy Mother’s Day to all the mothers out there. I proud of you keep it up. Your worth & wanted hasn’t been forgotten. #SearchForWonderMom #MothersDay #nativetiktok #indigenous #weloveyou #mothersoftiktok #fyp #viral

♬ Proud and Beautiful – Havva Ramadan

Today I spoke to a group of young adults about Mother’s Day. We talked about what ‘mothering’ looks like in the real world. The act of mothering is nurturing; it’s done by mothers, aunties, grandparents, cousins, dads, uncles. Can we celebrate that?

Let’s add this to our shared understanding of how we value and cherish the lives of children. Let’s normalize the ‘other’ mothering that happens. Let’s give kids a feeling that this isn’t a bad thing.

Happy mother’s day to the moms, dads, aunties, uncles, grandmas, grandpas, cousins, and other community members who support children. You’re rock stars. Thank you for pitching in when needed.

It takes a village.

Happy mother’s day,
whatever that looks like for you.


by Martha Postlethwaite

Do not try to serve
the whole world
or do anything grandiose.
Instead, create
a clearing
in the dense forest
of your life
and wait there
until the song
that is yours alone to sing
falls into your open cupped hands
and you recognize and greet it.
Only then will you know
how to give yourself
to the world
so worthy of rescue.

What images come up for you? Are you inspired to wait?

I imagine sitting in the front garden, smiling at children and adults (old and young) and dogs as they stroll past, leaving space for their smiles to reflect mine. I feel sun on my face, breeze brushing my skin carrying scents: lilac, smell of rain, pungent medicine of skunk, airborne seeds and bees and birds and leaves. I imagine my hands in the earth, bringing seeds to home, inviting them to grow to nurture my body and soul. I sit. I wait.

What would your waiting look like?


One evening not long ago a friend’s post on social media really got my attention. Reshaped from a couple of years prior, the post was a picture of soup along with a comment about the event of soup-making; my friend had spent time with a community group she is part of, making soup for a funeral. That was it: no people, just an enormous pot of soup. And that got me thinking about how these moments are the essence of how we experience and perceive life; the communities that we become part of inform our answers to basic questions about the world. Is it a good place? Will my needs be met? Where is my place in this world?

There’s a cycle of community and relationship. We project, reflect, revise, renew, re-engage. Refresh. Rekindle. Repair. Cycles go back to the beginning of me, eventually. I close my eyes and see such beautiful moments/memories: the neighbourhood of my childhood where we wandered unfettered by rules and restrictions. Wild, free, and aching for boundaries we lived dangerously. I have scars to prove it, each a story for another moment. That’s the outer story, what the world could see had they been looking, the moments that I share when I get nostalgic or feel compelled to explain a scar. It (the outer story) is just one part of what I carry.

I also have other stories, inner stories, anything but bright; the layers of these stories are still (slowly) peeling away. (I’m reminded of post-it notes, the ones that pop up one after the other. Like those notes after years in a drawer, some story is crumpled and hard to read. I try although some mag be better not examine too hard, simply examined and left to be. The inner stories are the pieces of life that reflected darkness that wasn’t mine but into which I was dragged from time to time, a place with no safety nets. Dragons lived here, sometimes sleeping and other times awake, sometimes peaceful and other times pursuing me. Dragons will do that. It’s not our fault if they do, is it?

Even though we keep them shut away it’s important to acknowledge the more powerful stories, and the trauma stories. And important to support and partake in work to set stories where they belong. Sometime we were tangled into other stories through no fault of our own, kind of like when you walk through the background of someone’s picture. Wrong place, wrong time. It happens. But still, I was there.

My sense of self exists within these stories and how I’ve been able to recognize moments that have marked a change in me. Moments that have revealed answers to big questions. Also, too, I recognize the moments that brought uninvited but necessary change. Moments, connected to stories, connecting to community that ties me to myself. This is the magic of stories: they’re where we find ourselves.