The day I learned of you, you were but an abstract vision of the future. It was a future I dreamed of but didn’t fully understand yet. I floated lighter than ever before, my feet gliding effortlessly above the ground as I walked from the bathroom to the kitchen table to sit down, absorbing this new reality. I am a mom. My mind was awash in excitement and trepidation. For months after, I walked with you close to me always, protecting your fragile body within my own, never forgetting that you were there with me. I imagined you, I dreamt of you.  

I carried you with me, cradled in my belly as my steps grew heavier. We walked together through golden umber leaves that crunched underfoot, unspoiled morning snow that caused me to wrap my arms around my growing belly, and through sweet-scented grass that hinted of the new life I would soon meet. It was during those final months that I could no longer see my own steps. My belly bulged, and your body weighed down on me. Responsibility weighed down on me. Fear weighed down on me.

My steps grew slower and more defined until one day I took my first steps without you, cold tile floor, sore and unsure. Exhausted, but filled with a nameless emotion that is something akin to amazement. Walking gently, gingerly, to get to you. You were no longer with me, and I ached to fill the void where you once were. I cradled your small delicate body near me, hoping I could protect you, hoping I could keep you safe, hoping I could be what you need in this life.

I walked to you in the night, sometimes because you needed me, and sometimes because I needed you. While the house slept, my bare feet creaked on old floorboards, sticking ever so slightly from the humid summer nights. Sometimes we swayed together, in the darkness of a night’s hour meant just for us, finding the exact place for my feet where the floorboards would not creak beneath our weight.

The nights you were sick left me pacing on tiptoes, treading the same path on the rug outside your room again and again. Not wanting to wake you, I strained to hear any indication that you were awake, that you needed me, that I had permission to go to you, hold you close, sway with you. I knew that when you cried out for comfort, I would go to you, placing my feet on the quiet floorboards. My feet intuitively knowing where to place themselves.

I took my first steps away from you, tears welling in my eyes, when you were barely old enough to hold up your own head. Just my desire to spend forever with you was not enough, and the other now less important pieces of my former life had to resume. Each day, coming full circle, my steps brought me back to you. My heart that grew emptier during my time away from you, inflated at the sight of you, overflowing with your smile, your laughter.

My steps, one day without even realizing it, became our steps. Standing in our kitchen, you held my hands tight as you teetered unsteadily into your independence. We walked together that day and many days after, our shared steps moving awkwardly together at first, then in a practiced unison that felt natural. Always your small hands gripped my fingers, your bright eyes looking forward at the world around you.

Then one day you let go of one of my hands. Then you let go of both hands. Our steps became your steps. I had to remind myself that each time you let go of me, I needed to let go of you too. I carried you for so long right there with me, and suddenly you no longer needed my steps to take you where you wanted to go. My heart tore inside, but your smile reminded me that this was right.   

Some days still, you choose my steps, asking to be carried, comforted, and held close to me. Some days you grab my hand and choose our steps, looking up at me, holding onto my hands with yours so tight, needing me, unsure of yourself. Some days, more and more, you choose your own steps, no longer tied to me, looking back with pride. My tears should not be misunderstood, I share your pride. Your first steps are my joy.         

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About the Author

Shawna Gove

Shawna Gove is the working mom to a sweet and wild little Calvin (complete with his own stuffed tiger!) She has blogged previously about her experience as a young adult with breast cancer, and she now blogs at about the made-up-in-her-head challenges of being a wife and raising an emotionally stinky little boy.