The Mothers Before Us

This week, as we continue to honor Indigenous Peoples’ Day, I find myself reflecting on the mothers who came before us — those who nurtured life through displacement, through silence, through the endless labor of holding families and futures together.

It’s easy to forget, in a world that celebrates independence, that everything we are is connected to someone who once carried us — in body, in story, in hope.

Joy Harjo wrote,

“Remember your birth, how your mother struggled to give you form and breath.You are evidence of her life, and her mother’s, and hers.”

That line always stops me.

Because motherhood, for me, is both sacred and ordinary — a lineage of breath and hands and small, invisible acts that ripple forward.

When I hold my daughter, I think of all the women who have held children before there were monitors, nightlights, or noise machines. Women who sang lullabies that carried history. Women who loved through danger, scarcity, and uncertainty. Women whose softness survived despite everything trying to harden them.

Sometimes, it hits me in the simplest moments — when I’m trying to air fry meatballs from Trader Joe’s and all my 21-month-old wants is to be held on my hip, to be involved, to be close.I think then of the women who, for generations, have strapped their babies to their backs and worked tirelessly through night and day. I feel that same pull — the ache of needing both hands free and both hearts connected.

As a first time mother, I’m learning that the work of honoring those who came before isn’t just about remembrance — it’s about practice. It’s how I speak to my child when she’s frustrated. How I care for my body without apology. How I decide what stories to pass down, and which ones end with me.

I’m not trying to perfect the past — I’m trying to evolve it.To mother differently.To build on what was given and grow what was missing.

This week, I’m sitting with gratitude — for the Indigenous mothers whose strength and tenderness shaped this land long before we named it. For the ancestral mothers who endured, adapted, and dreamed of daughters like ours.

And for all of us now, still learning to listen, to rest, and to rebuild gently — so that the generations ahead inherit something a little freer, a little kinder, a little more whole.

Field Notes is a free blog that lives alongside the Dear Mama Wellness Journal — a space for rest, reflection, and real stories.