A few weeks after giving birth, I opened my little makeup bag and took out two small wooden boxes. One is decorated with two geese wearing blue bows around their necks. The other bears an image of the Archeress—the famous statue from Polish town Bydgoszcz. For years, I’ve kept a few precious things inside them—things I never want to leave behind, whether I’m flying from Mozambique to Poland or from Poland back to Mozambique.
They’re nothing extraordinary. Just a few pieces of jewelry I enjoy wearing when I have enough room within myself for beauty. That matters to me, because whenever I reach for them, it’s a sign. A sign that life has become relatively calm again. That I’m no longer running through life, scraping my knees on every step.
So it was a few weeks after giving birth when I reached for those boxes. I changed the earrings I’d been wearing constantly, even back in Mozambique. I added a simple ring made of Toho beads that I had crafted in Africa. I put my wedding band and engagement ring back on—rings that no longer fit my swollen fingers during the final weeks of pregnancy.
And then I began planning my days.
That, too, is a sign. A sign that there is space inside me again. A rested mind.
There is something beautiful about the way we are made. Even when the weight of everyday life seems overwhelming, somewhere within us, space quietly begins to form. Strength gathers for whatever comes next. It happens almost unnoticed, without our conscious effort. We become larger on the inside, making room to be filled again—this time knowingly.
I wanted so deeply to be gentle with myself during the postpartum weeks. To move slowly as our family settled into this new number.
Because pregnancy does such extraordinary things to our bodies. It uses them. It changes them forever. It throws them out of balance. It places an immense burden upon them. And although all of it serves something beautiful—a new human life—the work our bodies do is immense.
And so is the work of the soul.
The soul, so sensitive to the body. The soul that worries, that cares, that carries concern for everyone in the household and for everything still to come. It embraces today while instinctively trying to embrace tomorrow for all those little people it has brought into the world.
I actually wrote this piece back then—on the very day I reached for those little boxes. It was supposed to continue. It was meant to become a reflection on the difficulties that followed and the quiet inner struggles of motherhood.
But time passed, and those struggles simply disappeared.
Not only are they no longer relevant—I can’t even remember them. They’re gone from my memory, and they’re nowhere in my notes. Someone once said that what is not remembered no longer exists. Perhaps it simply wasn’t important enough to carry any further.
So I walk on without it.
Our third little boy entered our lives naturally, and naturally he has remained at the heart of them. Without great burdens. Without overwhelming fears. Life with our three boys feels deeply right to me. There is a kind of personal completeness in this number.
And lately, as I’ve found myself returning to Ania—something I’ve finally had the strength to do—I keep realizing that although I fought so hard to preserve her independence, perhaps…
A few weeks ago, I unexpectedly ran into my high school Polish teacher. It was such a lovely reunion after so many years. She asked, in passing, what had become of my life.
My answer came effortlessly, as one complete whole:
“My husband. Three sons. Africa. And the books I’m still waiting to finish.”
As I heard myself say those words, I felt an unexpected surge of pride.
Pride in my sons.
Pride simply that they exist.
Pride in being a mother.
And I realized that perhaps there is no returning to the kind of independence I once longed for.
And perhaps I no longer need it—not in the way I once defined it.
Of course I want more of Ania in my everyday life.
But not an Ania who exists only for herself.
Some time ago a woman asked me a question that has stayed with me ever since:
“Do your children know their mother—or do they know Ania, who is also their mother?”
Somewhere along my journey through motherhood, I think I neglected Ania herself. I kept postponing her, as though her sensitivity couldn’t possibly exist alongside diapers, meals, and ordinary responsibilities. And then, emptied out, I began desperately searching for her again.
Of course Ania needs to be cared for as someone distinct.
But her purpose will never again be separate from those she loves.
And that is not something to grieve.
It is something to become excited about.
So the five of us are setting off for Mozambique.
With plans—and ready for the unplanned, because Africa always has plenty of those waiting for us.
Grateful for the grace that, through faith, makes possible what once seemed unimaginable.
Mothers, I pray that each of us may discover the me-a-mother we were created to be. ❤️
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