“I’ve got you,” he said, lifting my injured shoulder onto the massage table, warm pressure settling me.
“I’ve got you.”
Three words, and my body remembers safety, fear dissolves, and I find permission to lean into the unknown.
“I’ve got you.”

I have two adult children, two young women, they are not mine, they belong to themselves, I helped raise them alongside their dad and an army of friends and family who all played a role, big or small, in shaping who they’re becoming.
My ego wants to say they are mine, they belong to me, because that gives me a whole lot of fucking purpose, becoming a mum at twenty four answered my soul’s cry, why are you here.

There’s a piece of writing I’ve always loved: people come into your life for a reason, a season, or a lifetime.
A reason. It’s to meet a need. To hold out a hand when you’re stumbling, to share a resource, to offer the right word at the right time. Those moments change you, even if they’re brief.

I’m here to serve you, not save you.

How did I get the two mixed up for so many years? Because I’m human, and that’s what humans do sometimes.