There’s so much about loving and raising our children that people never see.
The emotional labor, the constant thinking about them even when they’re not physically with us, the way they’re always occupying space in our minds and hearts.
Did you know that adult flamingos, especially the mothers, sometimes lose their bright pink color while caring for their babies? The deep pink we associate with flamingos comes from the food they eat, but when they become caregivers, they use up so much energy and give so much of themselves that their color fades. It’s a visible sign of the invisible labor of caregiving, especially in motherhood.
There’s so much about loving and raising our children that people never see. The emotional labor, the constant thinking about them even when they’re not physically with us, the way they’re always occupying space in our minds and hearts.
I just got back from a trip to visit my daughter, Macartney, and I felt all this viscerally while I was with her in Denver. She’s in her freshman year at Colorado State in nearby Ft. Collins, so we like to meet in Denver every couple of months and do some mother-daughter bonding. The moment I was with her, I noticed something surprising: my whole body relaxed. Truly relaxed. I could feel the exhale.
It hit me then… when I’m away from my kids, I’m carrying this low, steady hum of anxiety. Not panic, not anything loud. Just a quiet, constant frequency in the background of my life. What are they doing right now? Are they OK?
I’ll hear something and think, “Macartney would find this hilarious,” or I’ll be eating something and think that my son, Max, would love it too. Even though Max only lives a couple hours away, it’s still away. It’s still that quiet tug on my heart. I love watching both of them grow and thrive (I wouldn’t have it any other way), but part of motherhood, I’m realizing, is learning how to live with your heart stretched across different cities, states, time zones.
I also recently learned something wild (thank you, science, always backing up what I feel). Mothers actually carry the cells of their children in their bodies (and sometimes, children carry their mother’s cells too). It’s called microchimerism, and it’s this incredible biological reminder that our connection is quite literally embedded in us. We don’t just hold our kids metaphorically in our hearts; we’re carrying them in our very cells.
And while I’m speaking here as a mom, this truth isn’t limited to motherhood. It’s the experience of anyone who loves deeply, who invests their heart in another person’s well-being. Whether you’re a dad, a partner, a sibling, or a friend, if you’ve ever felt your thoughts constantly drifting to someone you love, you know this feeling. The quiet vibration. The invisible thread that keeps you connected, no matter the distance.
But when I started thinking about the fading pink of the flamingo, I noticed something: I don’t feel depleted when it comes to loving my kids. It’s the opposite: I feel full and energized.
It made me realize, maybe the flamingos’ colors aren’t fading at all. Maybe they’re transforming. Maybe caregiving changes our colors in ways that aren’t visible to the outside world but feel deeply true to us. Maybe the love and care we give doesn’t deplete us; it expands us. It deepens our capacity to feel, to connect, to carry more than we ever thought we could.
We don’t lose ourselves in the process. We grow more complex, more vibrant, in ways that aren’t always seen but are profoundly felt.
We carry the ones we love - in our thoughts, in our hearts, and sometimes in our very cells. And when they’re with us, even for a moment, we don’t just shine a little brighter; we remember who we’ve become because of them. It’s not about getting back to who we were. It’s about standing tall in the new, richer shades of who we are now.
I continue to wrestle with this whole empty-nester thing - if I’m honest, some days more than others. But I’m also starting to see that these new colors I’ve grown into aren’t just about loss or missing something. They’re about deepening. Stretching. Expanding into new parts of myself I might never have discovered if I wasn’t called to love my kids from afar. Maybe this is the beauty of it all: we don’t stop growing when they leave home. We grow right alongside them.
These Love Letters are all about the love I give to you. And loving you, having this relationship, has also made my life richer. So, thank you.
Here’s to a week of seeing how the love you give is the love you get too.
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