I wanna be whole
and strong and steady
Maybe if I could just
split myself into three

I wanna be whole
and strong and present
I just want to see them smile
and time moves so quickly

I wanna be whole
and strong and certain
To just carry them close
without having to count the cost

But I am only one—
worn down, worn thin
Stretched across hours
that never quite fit

Never enough of me
to fill every need

Yet still—
I am the one

I am the one
they need and seek
when the day ends
and they crave comfort

I am the one
they reach for
without even thinking

they rest their heads
against my chest
as if my breathing
can steady theirs

I am the one
even when I don’t feel like me

I am the one

Not because I am whole
or strong or healthy
or steady or present
or certain

but because I choose to be here

A little life update:

My sister-in-law tied the knot two weeks ago. Hence, the updated flower photo. She was actually my maid of honor when I got married. And I happily agreed to be her bridesmaid—a first for me! They had a heartwarming ceremony at our local church, and our girls were her flower girls. Selah, thankfully, walked down the aisle (albeit leaving her flowers at the entrance arch). Shiloh, though, was sound asleep with her nanny on one corner of the sanctuary. My husband teared up a little when he saw her sister walk down the aisle. She was radiant and beautiful, as brides are on their wedding day! And when I saw the look of love in her eyes after they had kissed for the first time, I knew and felt that she is truly, very happy.

I have so many things to share, but just so I could send this out before it forever becomes just a draft, I’ll save them for later.

Hope things are sweet on your side of the table. Love and love always. ♡

My last dispatch sounded so much like a call for help.

But from where I am now, I am happy to report that I feel much lighter.

The feeling of lightness came when I started to truly slow down.

I didn’t rush my baths. I chewed my meals well. I sat down to brush my daughter’s hair. I held my eight-month-old while finishing a work deadline. I took our dog out to walks unhurried—yet cautious enough to listen for the sound of my daughters crying.

I didn’t stress if I couldn’t sit down through a Sunday sermon; I soothed my daughter’s needs first. The replays will come anyway.

I journaled. I began recalling each month that passed through a small recap with photos. I found my Kindle and started reading again—very sparingly, but still, it counts. I put my phone in my bag and had real-life conversations.

I try my best not to rush, not to depend on shortcuts, but to truly soak in what I am learning and allowing myself to take in—news, information, knowledge. These things are difficult to do when you live in an era where the hustle is glorified.

One more thing that made me realize this lightness: our family’s transition from carrying a huge backpack filled with extra clothes, diapers, milk, and snacks to a medium-sized tote bag that carries just what we need when we go out.

Life won’t feel heavy forever.

And if it does, remember that there are people willing to help carry it with you. Sometimes, all it takes is allowing yourself to accept help—or even asking for it.

Let me end this note with a photo of our youngest. At eight months, she can hold her bottle on her own. She can say Mama and Papa. She crawls so fast and can be feisty when her big sister is nursing with me. She gives the cutest smile when she tastes a food she loves. She has the same smile as her Papa, which is a comfort to see whenever I start to feel tired during the day.

I hope this little dispatch helps you slow down.

And I pray life feels lighter for you, too.

Til the next,
Dominique

It gets so lonely here. I just have to admit that. I’d be a fool to pretend that I’ve got it all together when, deep inside, all I really want is time away—time to be unhurried, unworried. Time to be myself again.

Yet I carry guilt with me everywhere I go. Guilt that if I put myself first, I’m a bad mother. Guilt that if my children don’t reach specific milestones, I’m failing at parenting. Guilt that if I spend just a little time for myself, I’m a bad wife.

I know these thoughts are not true, yet I can’t seem to shake them away.

So instead, here’s me acknowledging them.

The good thing is: I have never been happier elsewhere. A paradox, isn’t it? That the very things that make me lonely are also what brings me the greatest joy.

I told my Mama about the guilt I feel each time I put myself first, and her answer was not something I didn’t already know but nevertheless put things into perspective:

“You cannot give what you don’t have; you cannot pour from an empty cup.”

Grief has resurfaced in the last couple of weeks—not just online, but in the stories and losses of friends. And honestly, I don’t quite know how to feel.

While scrolling on my phone the other night, I stumbled on a note I had written during one of our discipleship meetings earlier this year: Love doesn’t skip grief.

Maybe it’s because I’ve grown familiar with the idea of loss. Or maybe it’s this phase of postpartum, where even my own emotions feel too deep to name. But I’m learning, again and again, that love must be practiced.

That it must show up—still, and regardless.

I cried the other day—silently, in my office cubicle.

Everything just felt overwhelming.

I reached out to my sister-in-law, knowing she’d understand what I couldn’t easily put into words.

Don’t get me wrong—I’ve got the best “village.” My friends and family have been such a comfort and help in so many ways. But I guess it’s true that there are moments only fellow parents can really grasp.

Later that day, my brother teased us for being dramatic, for needing a shoulder to cry on.

I laughed it off, as I always do. But it hit me then—how much mothers carry in their minds, and in their hearts.

“Our turn will come.”

Mama wrote to me one morning as I was expressing my disappointment over cancelled plans. Long story short, it was a trip to Bacolod that I had hope we’d get to have. Mama was going to attend a wedding, and we were supposed to accompany her.

But though we had the means, the plane tickets were just so expensive this time of year, and the girls are still too young to remember anything anyway.

Still, I had already hoped. I even listed down the places we could visit. But it simply wasn’t a wise move.

So I clung to Mama’s words that morning—and for every morning that came after that—because what else could I do?

Our turn hasn’t come yet, but I know it will.

And until it does, I’ll learn to be faithful with what we have—to savor the unbridled laughter echoing in our living room, the little fingers that cling to my shirt, the little moments that don’t need plane tickets to be remembered.

My heart, body, and soul are tired. But my hands—they are never empty.

I may be replaced elsewhere—but here in our home, I am always needed.

This lot is heavy. But it is mine to carry. I am learning to embrace this season, to hold both joy and grief in the same heart—joy for life as it is now, and grief for the life we once had.

It reminds me so much of what our pastor shared in his preaching two weeks ago:

There are sufferings in life that are meant for you. Because God ordained that in your life, He will be glorified through your suffering. So instead of resisting it, think it over: “Is this the role that God wants for me?”

I’m not saying motherhood equals suffering—no, no, no. My children are my joys. But lately, I’ve felt like I’ve done nothing but break—down, apart, open.

And yet, each day, I rise.

If this is the role God has written for me in this season, may I get to live it—fully and faithfully.

It has taken me two weeks to come up with this dispatch. I feel like I’m in a much better headspace now than when I first began writing it. It feels a lot like King David’s psalms—beginning with despair, wrestling with grief, yet always ending with hope and praise.

If there’s anything you take away from this little note, I pray it’s this: no feeling is final, and suffering is only ever temporary. Though permanence and stability are what our hearts often long for, there is still joy—and there is still hope—to be found in the shaking.

Love and love and love always,
Dominique