HER STORY, MY LIFE (SHE IS ME )

Capsonart
May 4
3 min read

Updated: May 7

With the spring sun blazing in the sky (never changing in seasons), the earth blooms with the fabric of roses, flowers and floral beauty, which we pick and arrange into a bouquet to give to the women who have given us life. Motherhood is recognized and observed for the sacrifices our mothers have made. In the heart of a mother, love is the driving force that bends our knees to bow.

IAM HER, SHE IS ME

Her children rise up and call her blessed; her husband also, and he praises her: | Proverbs 31:28

There is joy, pain, grief, sorrow, and the humanity that carries the true story of motherhood.

Mother’s Day is a time when many celebrate their mothers, honouring and memorializing the depth of their love. There are those who grieve and hug the silence of what they can’t say out loud. In this time, we reflect on a special piece that speaks from the heart of a child, with the theme of motherhood, and how that motherhood shapes childhood, and eventually adulthood.

Her Story, My Life (originally written in 2017) is a reflective piece written by the author, exploring the mental and emotional processes women can go through at different times in their lives. Inspired by personal experiences—the ups and downs of womanhood—it reflects the struggle of navigating a culture where many facets of society influence how we feel about ourselves. The poem stands as a mirror, a deeply personal reflection of identity, where “she is me,” and the writer encounters herself in that truth.

HER STORY, MY LIFE

Original Piece by Capsonart Publishing

International, inexperience age of my time,

goes past the blood gates of life.

Medical knowledge holds life in their palm,

passing me on to the womanhood

I soon resemble.

This child is now here,

to dress in opportunities

hung in the closets of four fathers.

Dressed in my sunday best,

the baby cradle rocks a tune

I won’t remember.

But my giggles praise its excellence.

Colors of red, blue, pink, and white

dance on my Iris. I become rapt by pure expression.

Then…

Her sorrows bosom mortality.

Clutching it like a purse full of things

she cannot bring out pain, sadness, and despair.

I don’t know if the life I breathe

chokes Her’s.

The answer she brings stands at the altar.

Her screams shout down ignorance.

It does slip through confusion,

yet the verb can’t ordain action.

For the roles are somehow fulfilled -

filled by a shepherd who should know

the little snippet of Gods Holy thoughts.

It reveals the contents of beats sourced by blood; revealing truth, separating lies.

Taking away the mask graced on

the face of potential womanhood.

Help, help, help brushes against the force,

powerful enough to speak existence and damnation.

Her lips don’t move to say I can’t marry you.

No matter this moment her choice brings me.

Iam the girl to grow in a world of unknown

to develop into a purpose, seemingly so vague but visible to eyes no one sees.

Her and me are on this path .

I cannot control

I cannot control the direction or guidance to tell them make me go there.

There…

There into riches and glory.

Tell them to let me draft, type,

write, share this story.

This story of the choice she made

forms me to be a painting of things but I love and embrace feminity.

Now

Deep in this room, I ask myself the question

What does it mean to be me without Her?

I don’t know because the story does not end here.

Written by: Alitta PS Cadmus

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