There’s a poem I listened to recently—Trespassing with Tweens by Danielle Chapman. It begins with a mother and child watching Great Blue Herons lift into the air and ends with the parent catching a moment of connection, as the child cries out, “Look, Mommy, look!”—noticing something wild and beautiful.
It cracked something open in me.
Not in a dramatic, sobbing way. More like a quiet ache I hadn’t named yet. That feeling of standing beside your child—both of you distracted, both of you carrying things you don’t know how to speak—and hoping that some moment, some miracle, might soften the space between you.
Isaac is thirteen now. He’s in transition—from childhood to adolescence, from being a younger brother to being an only child. His dad recently moved away, so he’s now with me most of the time. He also just received a psychological evaluation that helped us better understand how his brain works. That’s a lot of change for one young heart.
And while he’s moving through all of that, I am too.
I’m transitioning from being the mother of two boys to the mother of one. From business owner to someone still finding her footing. From healthy and active to someone navigating nervous system overload and physical limits I never had before. I’m no longer who I was. And I’m trying to meet this new version of myself with grace.
We’re both becoming. And there’s no map for that.
Lately, I’ve been reaching for Isaac in small, consistent ways—making meals together, watching Doctor Who, giving him space while also staying close. Some days, there’s connection. Other days, there’s distance. But it’s in the trying that something sacred begins to grow.
“You hate how distracted I get, my incomprehensible flights…”
That line from the poem sits with me. Because yes, sometimes I miss things. Sometimes I drift. But I keep coming back. I keep watching for the moment when he turns toward me, when the opening comes.
“Look, Mommy, look…”
The poem ends with the child noticing—truly seeing—two smaller beaks and an opening. That part undoes me. Because I know what it is to wait for the opening. To wonder if your child can still see you. To hope they know that even when you’re quiet, even when you’re unsure, you’re still there.
This is what it means to stand in a threshold.
Not the past. Not quite the future. Just this sacred, shifting middle.
And in that middle, we try.We tilt our faces toward one another like watering cans toward vases.
Sometimes awkward. Sometimes clumsy.
But full of something that still wants to be poured.
