In Space and Time
Jul 11, 2025
When it comes to the workshops or courses I offer, I generally give deadlines for registration. A date to sign up by. A clear line that says now or never. It helps people make decisions, helps me hold the container with clarity. There’s a clean feeling to it. We’re in. We’re out. We know.
But not this time.
Because life keeps reminding me that it just doesn't move that way.
My son Deeds slept through the night earlier this week. For the first time. After three and a half years. And I cannot overstate this magnitude of this miracle.
(For reference on how Deeds and his sleep cycles typically work - check out this video. And this one.)
We were a little stunned in the morning. He padded into the kitchen with a huge grin over having woken up in his own bed. We clapped. We cheered. It was like he crossed a finish line. He looked so proud of himself, like his little body knew it had done something big.
(Important to know - He has not yet replicated the feat.)
But that one night gave me hope. Not just about sleep, but about everything.
Because I have spent years trying to create the right conditions for that moment. The sound machine, the bedtime routines, the lavender infused baths, the co-sleeping, the not co-sleeping, the giving up, the trying again. And in the end, his body chose the moment. It happened when he was ready.
And that's honestly how nervous system regulation works. Milestones happen when we're safe enough. When our internal world lines up just so and something softens. Something says yes.
Not because of pressure. Not because of plans.
When I was a younger mother, I felt so much pressure around milestones. Not just the obvious ones like walking and talking and sleeping, but also the invisible ones. The ones that felt like “She should know how to do this by now” or “Why is this still hard for me” or “I must be doing something wrong.”
Everything felt urgent.
And the truth is, some of it really was. There were kids to feed and bills to pay and things that could not be put off. But so much of that urgency came from outside. From expectations. From comparison. From thinking I had to be somewhere other than where I was.
I know better now.
I now know that Motherhood is an arc.
Becoming is an arc.
And the things that truly matter, the deep settling, the repair, the shifts that last, they never arrive on someone else’s timeline.
They arrive when we're ready.
And when they do, we celebrate. Not because we finally checked a box, but because something inside of us feels safe.
This is not a pressure event. This is not another place to prove yourself or get it all right. This is about returning. About letting your body speak. About giving to yourself what you so lovingly give to everyone else.
So no registration deadline this time.
I refuse to create urgency. I choose to open space.
That said, space is limited. There are only so many spots, and when they're full, we're full.
But for as long as there's room, there's room for you.
In space and time,
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