For every mom who saw it coming.... Happy whatever you want to call this day Kindred.

You ever had one of those moments with your kid?
The moment of the almost déjà vu you almost didn’t believe would come true?
Where you held the vision for them long before it blossomed into a realized, lived experience?

One you hoped for, prayed for, worried about…
The ones only a mother has the audacity to believe in?

Maybe it was the moment they finally slept through the night.

Apologized.
Made a friend.
Said “I love you” first.
Laughed again after a good cry.
Maybe it was as tiny as a sock getting picked up unprompted.
Or as massive as them becoming someone they can be proud of.

And you didn’t gloat.
You didn’t say “I told you so.”
Nope.

You beamed. You wept. You practically levitated with that quiet, inaudible yet tangible hum of:
“Told you!!”

It’s not “I told you so.” That’s different.
That’s condescending. That’s finger-pointing.
That’s the voice of someone waiting to be proven right

“Told you!” is a whole different thing.
“Told you!” is a mama’s victory cry.
It’s not about being right. It’s about a dream remembered.
It’s about holding the line for someone who couldn’t see it yet.
It’s the joy of vision fulfilled.

It’s the exhale of someone who never stopped seeing the potential.
The subtle (and tired) wink of a mama who knew what was coming.

That’s the essence of Malchus she’b’Netzach.
The royalty that crowns perseverance.

The kind of strength that bakes sourdough while answering 137 text messages, and also breaking up a “who gets to sit at which seat at the table” war with one eyebrow raise, and stifling that scream because you’re also on the phone with the bank and have just stepped on a Lego. Barefoot.

And yes, I’m writing this from the dining room floor, where I have been asked to play with trains since 8am.

Because Mother’s Day is about actual mothering.

Not brunch and flowers, but listening to the same story eighty seven times. Because presence is a form of prophecy too. It’s how we say, “I see who you are, and I’ll meet you there.”

And that’s what I’d like to believe Azamra is too.

It’s not just a facilitator certification program.
It’s a cohort-led container that asks you to show up.
Not for me, or even just you, but for the people you’ll walk beside.
The ones you’ll breathe with, hold with, stretch with, sing with, cry with.

Because showing up, again and again, is a value. It’s something that can’t be taught. It has to be embodied.
Azamra is for the ones who jumped in before the doors opened, who said yes not because they were afraid to miss out, but because something in them already said: “I know this is mine.”

That’s why I’ve turned away four last-minute applications this week.
Not because I don’t think they’d be a great fit.
They will be.
Next year.

But I’m not looking to accept people who apply just because they feel like they’re about to miss out.

(They are, by the way.)

Because this work isn’t about missing out.
It’s about showing up.

Azamra isn’t a FOMO track.
We’re a vision train.

It’s about love showing up before the break of dawn. (Feel me mommas???) 

It’s for those whose spirit already answered the call others aren't attuned to hear.

And this train? 

It’s already left the station.

Choo choo.

And at some point this year, after a deep breathwork session, or a messy cry, or an unexpected movement, I’ll look at the men and women in this cohort with that mama-glow and say it again:

“Told you.”

Because I saw it coming. And more than likely, so did they.

That’s what motherhood feels like for me.
Knowing how to hold a vision.
Knowing how to hold the line.

That’s what Azamra is.
The kind of love that keeps whispering
“I see you,”
“I’ll hold it with you,”
and “I’ll hold you to it,”
even before you’re ready to believe it yourself.

Happy whatever you want to call this day, to every heart who held a vision no one else could see, and loved hard enough to let it come true.

Choo choo,

 Applications for our next cohort open in 297 days!
Just because that’s how trains work.
They leave.
They move.
They’re meant to.

And so are you. It's never too early to get on the waitlist