Just recently, the first box of my book arrived, and I had to let it sit in my hallway for a few days despite the eagerness of my sons. I felt the magnitude of the accomplishment. It has been ten years since I was first pregnant, then not pregnant, then pregnant again at work.
As women, our various identities can run off a list: “I am a friend, a sister, a daughter, a wife, a teacher, a leader, a mother,” with motherhood compounding the list of labels society gives us, and we give ourselves. I know I’m not alone when I say that, for me, it often feels like a never-ending list where I am failing at everything on a bad day and stretched to my limits on a good day.
Instead of having one big cup that represents my finite time and energy, what if instead each part of our identity had its own little cup, and each cup had varying amounts of fuel in them every day, or even at different times of the day? With that starting point in mind, they all pour into the vessel of myself that because of all my many facets is often overflowing, and they often fuel one another.
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