The message.

Yesterday evening we were bathing Inaaya, as the evening rituals go.

I was in the kitchen, pottering around trying to get dinner prepared, keeping an ear out for when I might be needed to assist.

As the day winds down and the evening begins (these days especially), I see that we are both quieter and more thoughtful about how we’re helping one another.

He knows I’m mentally, physically and emotionally spent — I just want things to remain at a very low volume from 6pm onward. I know he’s exhausted from the laborious work of fixing cars all day long— he just wants to watch some TV and have a good meal before bed.

We are of both of course (and like many others), stressed and wondering about when “normal” will resume, knowing damn well somewhere in our minds that this is normal now.

It’s during these hours that I find myself quietly contemplating how hard it can be some days, to not feel like my entire self has all but withered away by sundown.

Why did we become parents, I think.

Why did we choose to be so needed, all the time?

Mostly, it’s hard not to think about whether I’m fucking it all up anyway.

And then, as it often happens, my thoughts are interrupted.

I love you mama, my child says with such conviction, even in her baby voice.

I tell her I love her back.

Her eyes are big and dark, and the best part is that on my worst days, I know I can swim in their endless mercy.

I love you baba, she says next.

He tells her he loves her too, so much, he adds.

Everything is good, I think in this moment. The rest of my worries start to feel further away and my mind begins to descend.

I love mama.

And I love baba.

And. And. And.

I love MYSELF!

Her eyes are glowing. This is the first time she’s ever had such a realization, made such a declaration about herself, and with such awareness at that.

I love myself, mama.

I can’t wait to tell her when she’s older how profoundly wise she was at just 3 years old. I can’t wait to tell her about how her wide-eyed, old soul was able to verbalize something I’m still figuring out in my mid-thirties.

This whole isolation thing has forced me to be more present than I’ve been in a while, and that hasn’t been easy. I would be lying if I said that everything, even the bad things, are feeling a little too close for comfort.

Presence is one of those intricately beautiful things — it forces us into rooms with our greatest contentions. It pushes us toward fear and doubt.

But only to remind us that the door isn’t locked.