Motherhood poetry

All posts tagged Motherhood poetry


Published July 26, 2017 by hrhdana

I am mothering a little girl.
I want her to be
everything that she can dream
innocent and whole and free
present and at home in her body.
I want to be
the right balance of open road and safety rail.
I want my mothering to be balanced.
I know she has to hurt, fail, cry, fall
I can’t protect her from it all.
I want to.

I am mothering a hungry mind.
I want to fill her with
I want to be
the perfect mixture of
and active listener.
I want my mothering to
honor her voice
teach her to make good choices.
I know that we will fight.
It’s alright.
She will learn how to give and receive
Lessons on how to resolve things.
Sometimes I will get it wrong.
And she?
Will love me anyway.

I am mothering a feminine body.
I want her to
always feel at home in herself,
love her construction,
execute bodily autonomy,
live a life free of shame.
I want to be
an impermeable barrier
protecting her innocence.
I will be a woman first
know when to pull back and let her bloom.
I want her to be free.

I am mothering a soul, an essence.
I want her to
connect to the infinite
be love
practice self-care and empathy
embrace her innate royalty
her divine connection to the almighty we.
I want to be
a role model sharing my own journey
a listener so she talks to me.

I want so much
for us.
I pray hard
that I can be enough.

I am mothering a little girl.
She is the most important thing in my world.

She holds my hand

Published August 11, 2015 by hrhdana

We walk to the bus every morning.

Monday through Friday.

I am so lucky.

She holds my hand.






She clings to me.

When something catches her eye

a spiderweb,

a beautiful flower,

or even a

a beetle

she lets go.

Runs to explore.

Her face lights up.

3 year old exclaiming


And I look.

When she is ready to go again

she reaches for my hand.

I am lucky.

Today my right hip is wet.

It’s raining.

Her umbrella comes right up to my hip.

And even though she was holding it



She had to hold my hand


She holds my hand.

Her umbrella bumps against my hip,

It’s wet.

I don’t complain.

Grounded in the moments where

she holds my hand

as if there were no other way to

walk down the street.

She holds my hand.

And even with my wet hip.

I smile big.

She holds my hand.