How We Flow Now
A Mother’s Day poem for the woman who shaped me—and the healing we shape in return.
On Mother’s Day, I find myself thinking not just about celebration, but about legacy. The visible gestures and the quiet sacrifices. The love that nourished me, and the lessons I had to unlearn to return to myself.
This poem is for my mother—and all the women like her—who did the best they could with what they had. It’s about the strength that shaped me, the silence I had to name, and the ways we’re learning, still, to soften. To flow. To pass on something fuller than what we received.
This is for her.
This is for me.
This is for the daughters who come next.
How We Flow Now
by SheaSpeaks
She told me she wasn’t perfect
an apology,
maybe sometimes a warning.
But she always did her best.
From handmade costumes
leopards and clowns stitched with care
to picnic celebrations,
building joy from scratch.
Turned birthdays into
yellow cake paradise,
sprinkled with laughter
and chocolate-covered kisses.
Somehow,
mama always knew
music made me feel connected
how joy sings louder
when love is in the room.
How sound and movement
shift the pain from a trapped spirit,
and rhythm releases a shine
like a thousand suns.
She gave me melodies
to carry what couldn’t be said.
Still,
not all pain can be danced away.
Mama always tried.
Never perfect.
Even when her lessons
felt too heavy for me to carry,
buried my voice
under the burden of expectations,
tied me up
in the shame of guilt disguised as love.
When my questions felt like resistance,
and my tears ran like betrayal
she was resilient in her iron rule.
Mama built a home
with bruised palms and iron breath.
Softness?
She packed it away
when the world taught her
it wouldn’t keep her safe.
She wore survival
like a second skin.
Mama dressed me in armor so strong
I forgot what it meant to flow.
But the tide rose
in hands that never learned to open
a swell rising in still water.
The tighter she held,
the higher the pressure rose,
until the dam gave way
and confluence washed over us,
like rivers meeting,
teaching us how to trickle into each other gently.
Now,
I try too.
For mama.
For me.
For everything she passed down
even the unspoken things.
Mama still tries
never perfect,
mostly an apology.
But I always remind her:
just look at how we flow now,
how we water new things
with what we’ve learned.