The Privilege of My Life

Once I had children, a strange thing began to happen. An ordinary sound like my husband’s booming voice, a garbage truck, or a crying child would trigger an unordinary reaction in my body.

For a split second, a network of alarm would light up my entire system. This powerful jolt screamed CODE RED! ACTIVATE SURVIVAL!

It felt like an invisible web had been plucked inside of me. Its latent energy surged to the surface and all of my cells stood on alert.

The experience was physiological, with no mental counterpart. I couldn’t logically explain it.

After a moment, I was able to place myself back in the present moment. From there, I recognized that my husband was just talking on the phone, the garbage truck was collecting trash, or my child needed a snack.

I found my reaction puzzling. It was as though I were experiencing an echo of historical PTSD. The imprint of a past life, or past lives, suddenly seemed to be overlayed upon this one.

I couldn’t attribute my somatic reaction to any roots in this life, however. I’ve never been beaten. I don’t live in a war zone. My children are fed, clothed and loved.

But despite my current reality, the odd reaction continued to show up from time to time. A trace of abuse, shock and survival seemed to live in my DNA.

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Some stories catch your attention.

On October 7th, 2023, when Hamas unleashed their hatred on Israeli citizens, I watched in disbelief and horror. The cruelty they visited on children, mothers and families was sickening. The subsequent war in Gaza was devastating.

In the weeks that followed, that ancient alarm system was activated within me again. It simmered day and night. Normal sounds caused my heart to pound and adrenaline to course through my body.

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Issac Newton’s Third Law of Motion says, ‘For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.’

In response to the horrors I was witnessing in the Middle East, I became the reaction. I chose to double down on love wherever I could.

I began to give my full attention to my children. I slowed down and watched them play. I pulled them into our bed at night and snuggled them to sleep beside me.

As my presence deepened, I took them in with a newfound sense of appreciation: The way they tumbled and played like lithe pups. The rootedness that was evident in their bodies. The safety they live in so unquestioningly.

Everyday moments took on a sacred quality~

Smelling their hair.

Watching them eat.

Witnessing the fullness of their exuberance, like a ripe balloon stretched to its edges with happiness.

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My connection to mothers also deepened.

I felt the love and ache we all share. Saying goodbye to my kids at drop-off, I was keenly aware that love can become loss in an instant.

I held (and continue to hold) the warmth and expansion of love in my heart, as well as the promised ache of loss.

As my children slept beside me, I practiced gratitude. I gave thanks for their safety, health, and happiness. I felt the blessing of their unbroken innocence. I vowed to protect that innocence at all costs, until Life slowly wipes the fog from their eyes and they see the world of suffering for themselves.

Many nights, I expanded into a state of timeless awareness. On one level, I was holding my child. But on another level, the child in my arms could have been any child. I was just the grateful embodiment of a loving, connected mother-child relationship.

In those moments, I imagined mothers whose children had been taken hostage, or were buried under rubble. Watching my own children sleep in the safety and warmth of our bed, the juxtaposition was stark. From the center of this personal dichotomy, I beamed out a signal of well-being to all mothers.

This still exists, I thought. Safety and love exist. If you cannot hold your babies tonight, I will hold mine for you. I will breathe in their smell and kiss their temples. I will feel the warm, heavy weight of their limbs. I will emanate safety and love for all of us.

This is still sacred.

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I believe I have lived many lifetimes as a mother who could not protect her children. I have seen it in dreams. I have felt it in meditation. I know the visceral sensation of having a child torn from my arms.

But in this lifetime, I can provide safety for my children.

This is the privilege of my life.

I do not take this privilege for granted. I practice gratitude for it every day. One way I do so is through writing. Before October 7th, I had begun compiling a list of my favorite childhood-isms. When the horrific massacre took place on Israeli soil, I put down my pen and mourned with the rest of the world.

Recently, I unearthed that list. I’ve decided to share it here. I do so as an act of faith, resilience and love. Maybe it will inspire you to create your own.

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⭐️ A Celebration of Childhood ⭐️

Walkie Talkie’s

Happy Meals

Bunk beds

Forts

Eenie-meenie-miney-moe

Bare buns

Warm tummies

Flushed cheeks

Bubble gum

Leaf piles

Riddles

Hot chocolate with mini marshmallows

Forest walks to collect autumn leaves

Arcades and birthday parties

Letters to Santa

Coke in the bottle

Go Fish

Pictionary

Candyland

‘Jinx!’

‘None of your beeswax!’

‘Thinga-ma-jig’

‘Thinga-ma-bob’

Dr. Seuss at bedtime

Spray parks

Sibling wrestling

Sprinklers under the trampoline

S’mores

Roller skating through the living room.

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What are some of your favorite childhood-isms? Do you write them down?

Beginning on March 10th, I am offering WRITING MOTHERHOOD. This course will explore the way we mother, and turn our experiences into art. It is open to every woman who desires to explore this deeply intimate terrain.

I would love for you to join us.

To register, click here. If you have any questions, please reach out.

Love,

Sarah

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