I really thought this would be different. I thought this year I would be writing something softer, something quieter, maybe something about tiny hands and sleepless nights and the kind of exhaustion that feels earned, something about holding my baby as I tried to find the words for my first Mother’s Day.

There are places you go to see. And then there are places you go that quietly rearrange you. Marfa was the latter. I had heard of it, of course. The art, the mystique, the kind of place people speak about with a certain reverence…

Last year rearranged me in ways I’m still learning how to name. This piece is about the women who stayed, the kind of friendship that holds you without asking you to tidy your grief, and the quiet return to each other that becomes possible when no one is performing.

I didn’t know I missed it until I put my hands in the dirt. What began as a small return to the garden became something far deeper, a remembering of childhood, a reckoning with grief, and a quieter way of coming back to myself through the seasons.