Even When the Kettle’s Bare

Some paths are quieter than others—but walking them together makes all the difference.

Today reminded me of the quiet weight that comes with being the one others turn to.

I spoke with both of my daughters—separately, at different points in the day. One needed advice, the kind only a mother can give when life feels uncertain. The other’s voice held something heavier, and when I asked, she let it spill: relationship strain, financial stress, the kind of ache that’s hard to name out loud.

I listened. I offered what I could—words, perspective, a little steadiness. And later, I followed up. Not because I had to, but because I know how it feels to be left holding something alone.

They each thanked me. They each made a move forward. And I felt that familiar flicker of peace—the kind that comes from knowing you were able to help.

But beneath that peace, there’s a quieter ache. The kind that surfaces when you’re still navigating your own storm, and yet you find yourself pouring from a cup that’s already low. It’s not about resentment—it’s about reality. About the quiet math of love and capacity.

We’re still in flux. Still searching for a home. Still navigating systems that don’t make space for people like us. And yet, I keep showing up. For them. For myself. For the life I’m still building.

Sometimes, the cost of showing up is steep. But the return—connection, movement, grace—is worth every quiet sacrifice.

A mother’s strength isn’t loud. It’s the kind that holds others together while quietly falling apart.

And so I keep showing up. Not because it’s easy. Not because I have everything figured out. But because love, in its quietest form, is often just presence. A warm voice. A steady hand. A willingness to walk beside someone—even when your own path is uncertain.

~Some days, grace is just the act of staying.  

With a cup of warm calming tea, 

❤️ Honey🍯🫖