I sit in my office, nestled into the recliner, legs folded beneath me. The room is still, except for the cool air drifting through the door. My water rests on the table beside me, untouched. The silence around me is not empty but full—pregnant with something I have yet to name.
I have been here before, many times. The place where something precious has shifted—the relationship, the dream, the certainty I once carried so effortlessly. My mind wants to solve it, to piece together what went wrong, but the ache in my chest whispers a different path.
I close my eyes.
“What am I feeling?” I ask myself, but the question catches in my throat. A lump rises, tightening my breath.
Loss.
Grief.
A tenderness that longs to be met.
It’s been ten months since I stood beside my daughter-in-law as she readied herself to bring my grandson into the world. I was there—something I had never assumed, something that, for a moment, made me feel woven into the fabric of her new life as a mother. But after that day, something between us changed.
A quiet distance. A culture war of mothers.
Me. My daughter-in-law. My daughter-in-law’s mother.
Three women, three traditions, three ways of understanding what it means to nurture. Each of us reaching to be seen, to be valued, to belong in this newborn sea of challenge and uncertainty.
My daughter-in-law’s mother, steeped in her own heritage, moved into an authoritative role so natural to her it seemed unquestioned. My daughter-in-law, navigating the steep learning curve of child birth and motherhood, clung to the safety of what was most familiar. And I—I found myself standing at the edges, unsure where I even fit. My wisdom, once welcomed, now felt like an intrusion. My presence, once steady, now felt unstable.
My heart ached with the weight of it.
The echoes of Fairfax when Jason was born in 1988 hummed in my bones—early contractions and bed rest, engorged breasts carrying days of milk, the good fortune of having our pediatrician live next door.
I was a young mother then, always nursing, even while folding laundry. Watching Jason’s every move felt urgent, alive. Even my exhaustion had a pulse.
Now, when I think of my daughter-in-law, I realize how hard it is to fully grasp the backdrop of her thoughts. I can only sense her conflicts—tradition pulling in one direction, the tug of caution forcing her into a changing world. I wonder if her mother whispered quiet prayers into her hair at night, like rules for being human interwoven with pride and worry, always fearing she must go beyond her reach.
Culture shapes a child in unseen ways. I imagine memories like a soft cloth, laying them beside my daughter-in-law’s, seeing where—if any—of our historical threads intertwine.
I exhale slowly and turn my attention to the paper in my lap. I ask the Unseen Therapist to support my struggle.
“Omniscience,” she replies. “You have a great gift—seeing the whole.”
My mind, usually the one in charge, begins to listen rather than dictate.
Drop into your heart. That is the place where you have the most influence. What you are learning is how to serve without attachment, how to release the need to be right, how to let life unfold without gripping at the edges.
I inhale through my heart. Exhale through my heart.
“How does my heart see this?” I ask the Unseen Therapist, trusting she will provide me with a higher perspective.
Your heart does not tally up losses like debts owed. It does not demand explanations or closure. It only asks: What now?
The Unseen Therapist reminds me:
Omniscience does not need to fix.
Omniscience does not need to be seen.
Omniscience trusts the unfolding.
“What does my heart really need right now?” I whisper inwardly.
To rest in knowing.
To let love be spacious.
To allow my daughter-in-law the dignity of her own becoming, without interfering with my own.
“How do I get there?”
I place my palm over my chest, grounding myself in the rhythm of my breath.
By not rushing.
By not grasping for what once was, but by allowing our relationship to transform in its own time—even as I fear it may never change, and I may have to learn to live with this ache forever.
By standing in the knowing that love is beyond roles, beyond culture, beyond expectation.
By honoring that I, too, have needs—not just to be included, but to feel nourished, respected, and at ease in my own being. That includes getting to know my grandson, just him and me.
By tending to myself with the same tenderness I wish to offer others—allowing my body to rest, my emotions to move, my spirit to feel held in something greater than this moment of dissonance.
By trusting that my presence in my own life is just as vital as my presence in theirs.
By asking you, Unseen Therapist, to take this sadness I feel or help me unravel it back to neutral.
I open my eyes.
The room is still here. The chair is still beneath me. And I, too, am still here—changed. Whole.
I rise to my feet, feeling the soft carpet beneath my soles. I do not know exactly where I am going, but I am moving.
The Unseen Therapist affirms: Any movement on the internal planes is enough for now.
And so, with quiet gratitude, I thank the Unseen Therapist for weaving and breathing with me.
I tell her that my imagination has been awakened, and I long to fully experience my presence—to gather my feelings, return them to their rightful place, and dissolve any that remain unresolved.
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