writing

8PM

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8pm is also when I start my child’s bedtime routine.

While headlines refresh and the world holds its breath, I will be standing next to a little stool in our bathroom, helping tiny hands squeeze toothpaste onto a brush. I will remind her to spit, not swallow. I will wipe her face with a warm washcloth and kiss her warm, rosy, damp cheeks. I will tighten the clump of messy curls on top of her head.

She will pick out a book. Probably one we’ve already read a hundred times. She will interrupt me halfway through to ask questions that have nothing to do with the story. I will answer anyway.

We will sing a song while I help her into her jammies. The same one, every night. I will tuck her in just like a big in a rug. I will whisper, “I love you to the moon and back.”

And tonight, I will hold on a little tighter during our group hug.

Because in the back of my mind, a quiet question will be echoing: Is my country bombing Iran right now?

Night is already falling there.

Somewhere across the world, another parent is beginning their own bedtime routine.

They are brushing teeth. They are smoothing blankets. They are telling stories in a language I don’t understand but a rhythm I would recognize instantly.

They are loving their child in the exact same way I love mine.

And what are they wondering?

Are they listening for sirens? Are they watching the sky? Are they trying to sound calm when they are anything but? Are they holding on just a little tighter, too?

The symmetry of our hearts and the dissonance of our circumstances is staggering.

Because motherhood does not change across borders. Love does not need translation. Bedtime rituals do not belong to one country or another. They belong to all of us.

And yet, the safety wrapped around those rituals can be so uneven, so fragile, so dependent on decisions made far away from the quiet moments where children rest their heads on their parents’ shoulders.

Tonight, at 8pm, I will do what mothers have always done. I will create a small pocket of peace inside my home.

I will choose softness. I will choose presence. I will choose love.

But I will not pretend the world outside does not exist.

I will feel the weight of it. I will carry the awareness that while I am turning off a nightlight, somewhere else a parent may be bracing for something unimaginable.

And still, I will whisper the same words:

I love you. I love you. I love you.

Because if there is anything that connects us across oceans, across fear, across uncertainty, it is this:

We are all just trying to tuck our children in safely at night.

And tonight, that feels both heartbreakingly simple and impossibly profound.

Hug your babies tight. Hug your loved ones right. 

Shit is fucked up, but we’re all gonna be okay. I hope. 

– Meig

The Quiet Kind of Happiness

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There was a time when I thought happiness would look big. Big moments. Big celebrations. Big milestones that everyone could see and applaud. I thought it would feel like fireworks or confetti or some loud, unmistakable proof that life had turned out exactly right. But the older I get, the more I realize that the truest kind of happiness is usually very quiet.

Tonight it looked like this. A Friday night with nowhere we had to be. The house settling into that soft end-of-week rhythm where everyone exhales a little deeper. Toys scattered across the floor, the hum of something on the TV that no one is really paying attention to, and the kind of tired that only comes after a full week of living.

I looked over at the couch and there they were. My husband and my daughter curled up together like it was the most natural thing in the world. Her little body tucked into his, his arm wrapped around her with the kind of instinct that only comes from loving someone deeply and daily.

Sixteen years with that man. Sixteen years of ordinary days that somehow built a life. And now here he is, holding the tiny human we made together, her wild curls spread out against him, both of them completely content just being close. No big moment. No milestone.

Just us.

Motherhood has changed the way I see happiness. Before her, happiness felt like something you chased. Something you planned or waited for. Something that happened later, once everything was just right. But children have a way of bringing life right into the present moment whether you’re ready for it or not.

They remind you that the best parts of life rarely announce themselves. They show up quietly. In sticky hands reaching for yours. In the sound of laughter from the other room. In the weight of a sleepy child leaning against your shoulder. In the sight of the person you’ve loved for years loving your child just as fiercely.

Happiness is hearing a small voice say, “I love you, Momma,” like it’s the most obvious truth in the world.

It’s the way she wraps her arms around your neck when she’s tired, her little body melting into you for one more sleepy hug before bed. It’s laying in bed at night, staring into the next room over and watching her sleep. Listening to the quiet rhythm of her breathing and feeling that overwhelming mix of peace and awe that this tiny person exists, and somehow you get to be her mother.

Marriage changes too when you add a little person to it.
Not worse. Just deeper.

It becomes less about candlelit dinners and more about the way he instinctively scoops her up when she’s tired. The way he turns cartoons on so you can finish cooking dinner. The way the two of you exchange that look across the room that says we made this little life together.

The kind of love that builds slowly over years doesn’t always look glamorous. Sometimes it looks like sharing a couch. Sometimes it looks like being tired at the same time. Sometimes it looks like raising a small, curly headed whirlwind together and hoping you’re doing at least a few things right.

But tonight, looking over at them cuddled up together, I realized something.
This is the happiness people spend their whole lives searching for. Not perfection. Not some polished picture perfect version of life. Just love that feels safe. A home that feels warm. A child who feels secure enough to curl up between the two people who love her most in the world.

There will be bigger moments, I’m sure. Graduations and birthdays and all the milestones that come with watching a child grow up, but I have a feeling that years from now, when I look back on this life, it won’t be the big moments that shine the brightest.

It will be nights like this.

A Friday night. A messy living room. A little girl with wild curls. The sound of “I love you, Momma.” Sleepy hugs.
The man I’ve loved for sixteen years holding our daughter like she’s the most precious thing in the world.
And me sitting here quietly realizing that happiness was never something waiting for us somewhere down the road.
It was sitting right next to me on the couch the whole time.

Happy Friday, friends.
Meig

For Adalyn, Almost Three

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Adalyn, my wildflower bright,
You chase the wind, you catch the light.
With dino roars and spinning wheels,
You turn the world with how you feel.

Your smile is a spark, it’s sunbeams bursting,
It finds my heart and it quenches the thirsting.
You dance like storms and giggle like rain,
Then you hold me close through joy or through pain.

You roar like a T-Rex in the hall,
Then twirl and tumble, with your feet so small.
You lead with love, you leap with grace,
You are such a whirlwind in a tiny space.

Feral, free, and full of fire,
You climb, you jump, and you never tire.
But in your arms, the world is still,
It’s a gentle hug, such a quiet thrill.

You rally crowds for “dance mode” fun,
The party starts with just one run.
And in our group hug, squeezed in tight,
You shine with all your little might.

You’re kind, you’re strong, you’re truly you,
And every day, you’re something new.
I watch, in awe, as time moves on.
My sweet baby girl, my rising dawn.

So when the days feel far too fast,
I’ll hold these moments, make them last.
For in your eyes, I clearly see
The best the world could ever be.

Keep shining bright, my beautiful little firecracker.
I love you. Mean it. Always.
Momma 💕❤️

3 Days Before Surgery

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Packing for Dallas at Midnight: A Moment of Clarity in the Chaos

It’s midnight, and I’m still packing for Dallas. I started around 9 PM, and I’ve managed to get one suitcase packed—though even that feels incomplete.

I can’t help but wonder: why am I moving so slowly? Why can’t I focus on this simple task?

The answer seems to lie in the clash between my racing thoughts and my sluggish body. The louder my brain gets, the slower my hands move. It’s as though the more anxious I feel, the less capable I am of doing anything at all. I glance at the baby monitor. There she is—my sweet girl, sound asleep in her crib, as peaceful as she can be. It’s a stark contrast to the chaos swirling in my mind.

Intrusive thoughts keep flooding in. I wish there were a mute button for my brain, just something to stop the noise for a few minutes so I can breathe.

What makes it worse, though, is when people ask me how I’m doing. How do you answer when you feel like you’re barely keeping it together? I’m not eating much. I’m staying up late because my brain is too loud to sleep. When I do sleep, it’s fitful and haunted by nightmares that leave me waking up in a sweaty panic. I’m terrified of the future, of what’s to come. I can’t think straight, I can’t focus, and the simplest tasks feel impossible—like packing a bag.

Packing, in particular, feels like a painful reminder that this isn’t just some nightmare. This is real. It’s been real ever since our daughter’s diagnosis, the day we saw the pediatric orthopedic surgeon for the first time. But I’ve been able to push it to the back of my mind, to pretend for a while that it isn’t happening. It’s easier that way. I’ve been dissociating, going through the motions of day-to-day life, trying to enjoy the small moments. We took her to the zoo for the first time, and I allowed myself to believe everything was okay, if only for a few hours.

But now, with every item I fold and tuck into the suitcase, it hits me all over again. This is happening. And I don’t know how to make sense of it all.

I guess, for now, I’ll go finish packing. But I don’t think I’ll be able to ignore it much longer.