The Love You Carry (Even When No One Sees It)

There are some stories that take time to share.
Not because they aren’t important, but because they’re sacred.
Because they’re tangled in grief and gratitude.
Because they hold love that never left—even if the one you loved did.

Mother’s Day just passed. And I didn’t post anything.
Not because I forgot.
But because I couldn’t.

Not because I’m not a mother—because I am.
I’m a mother to Stella.
And I was a mother to Sam.

But when your motherhood doesn’t look the way the world expects it to, it often goes unseen. Unrecognized. Unnamed.

Sam wasn’t “just a dog.”
He was my baby.
And losing him felt like losing the brightest part of me.
It’s been nearly two years since he passed, and still—his birthday, holidays, even the smell of summer air—bring a knot to my throat.

The truth is, I don’t celebrate Mother’s Day anymore.
Not because I’m not grateful.
But because it brings up too much.
Too much that people don’t understand.
And honestly? I don’t expect them to.

But I do want to say this—to the woman reading who’s lost a child, or a pet who felt like one.
To the woman who never became a mother the way she’d hoped.
To the one who mothered people, animals, dreams, and never got recognized for it—

You are not invisible.
Your love counts.
Your grief counts.
Your version of motherhood matters.

And if this weekend, you needed quiet instead of celebration, I want you to know:
You weren’t alone in that.

There’s another part of me that’s been whispering lately: “Is it okay to feel both lost and lucky?”
Because that’s what I’ve been feeling.
So deeply grateful for Stella, for my little life here.
And also stuck—between the life I have and the one I’m still dreaming into existence.
Eleven months out of twelve, my website hears crickets.
That’s the hard truth.
But I still keep showing up—not just with paint, but with presence.

I don’t write these posts as a marketing strategy.
I write them as a way of finding my own voice—and maybe lighting a little candle for someone else stumbling through the dark.

So if you’re here, reading this—thank you.
If you’ve ever felt unseen in your grief, your longing, your love—thank you for letting me say what I wish someone had said to me.

And no, I’m not here to complain.
I’m here to recommit.
To try again.
To remind both of us that showing up—heart open, even when we’re not sure how—is always enough.

I don’t know exactly where this is all leading.
But I know I’ll keep telling the truth.
And if that truth reaches you today, even just a little—then maybe we’re both one step closer to healing.

With love,
Rose, Sam and Stella 🐾