Mother, in Ash and Light

This morning, I cried.

Not the kind of cry that calls attention — but the quiet, uncontrollable kind that rises from deep inside. I closed my eyes tightly and found myself somewhere far away. Back in a small room filled with soft morning light, with Lucyna — my sister, my mirror. We must have been six, maybe the age Theo is now. I can't remember the scene exactly, just the feeling. That raw, untouchable softness of childhood.

And then something happened. The ear that had been blocked for over a month suddenly popped — unblocked — as if the tears themselves had cleared the path. “I can hear again,” I messaged Thomas. “And it’s because I cried.”

We don't talk enough about crying as a form of healing. But in that moment, it felt like a quiet resurrection. A phoenix of the self — not burning to ash in spectacle, but slowly smoldering through grief, through memory, through mothering. Cleansed.

These days with Theo are precious. Wild and unscripted. Watching him grow up in nature feels like watching a small flame find its shape. Yesterday, he told me he knew the way home and insisted I not walk with him. So I hid behind the trees, letting the wind carry me slower down the road, letting him believe in his own courage.

We passed the horses and the neighbor’s stables. He kicked at Pegasus, irritated, small-footed fury. And I saw myself in him. I reappeared to scold him gently, though what I really wanted to do was hold him. Because I remember doing the same. Kicking our dog Daisy as a child — not out of cruelty, but confusion. Anger. The kind only a child feels when the world is too loud, and their parents are arguing again.

And maybe Theo feels that, too. Maybe he is teaching me how to mother through it. To see the fire, but not fear the burn.

Motherhood is a thousand tiny deaths. And a thousand quiet resurrections. Every day, I’m learning how to rise again.

Text: Marta Marszalek 

Photography by: Marta Marszalek of Meghan Mathews and her daughter.