There is Only Light / by Rebecca Tillett

I am much more protective of my feelings on motherhood than anything else in life. I am still working on unraveling just why exactly. I suspect because they are not always overwhelmingly exuberant, which I feel mothers rarely see mirrored or represented outside the darkest recesses of our minds. We are inundated with nothing but the happy wonderfulness so there is a built-in shame in feeling anything but, perhaps.

But here’s something I have felt passionately about since my daughter was as a big as a kabocha squash in my belly, and can say with absolute unwavering certainty: if anyone ever seriously hurt this little girl, I would spend the rest of my life making sure they suffered. And in ways that are too big and immense to articulate. You know, the kind of suffering in which death would most likely be preferable? That kind.

And my god, when she smiles at me or better: I make her laugh, the world around us disappears completely. There is only light.

This is love: to fly toward a secret sky, to cause a hundred veils to fall each moment. First to let go of life. Finally, to take a step without feet.
— Rumi