Eggshellent Ideas

Before life rearranged me, I made art from broken things.

I glued colorful beads onto my drawing of the side-view face of the Madonna gazing at her Child, sketched on bond paper. I pressed sequins into place with hands that believed details mattered. To this day, that piece remains in my collection of childhood keepsakes.

Later, I crushed eggshells and laid them, piece by piece, into a larger Madonna and Child image. This time, I painted over the shells, turning fragments into form. I called the project “Eggshellent Ideas.” My mom framed it -- not because it was flawless, but because she saw something in me worth preserving.

I believed fragments could become sacred if handled with care.

I did not know I would one day become the fragment.

I fell in love. I married. I grew up fast. I became a wife before I understood partnership and a mother before I finished understanding myself. And then I did what many women do -- I endured.

From 1996 to 2018, I stayed in a marriage that did not make me happy. I raised my children. I fed them, worried over them, worked for them. I was tired. I was imperfect. I was overwhelmed. But I was trying.

Trying does not come with applause.

When I finally chose to let go -- when I chose air over suffocation -- I believed the worst was over.

I was wrong.

Years later, my children decided I am a bad mother. Not flawed. Not human. Bad. Worthy of distance. Worthy of silence.

There is no gentle way to absorb that.

To my children, M and G -- I was not perfect. I made mistakes. I was young. I was exhausted. I chose freedom when I could no longer survive inside my own life. But I did not stop loving you both. I did not abandon you. I did not erase my devotion because my marriage ended.

You may see me through your pain. I cannot control that. But I will not accept a version of myself that erases the years I carried you in my body and in my bones.

I was a trying mother.
That is the truth.

I have no regrets.

I cannot regret surviving. I cannot regret choosing breath. I made decisions with the strength and knowledge I had at the time. None of us raise children with the clarity of hindsight.

I feel unlucky.

Unlucky that love did not last.
Unlucky that freedom came with a cost.
Unlucky that my motherhood is being rewritten without me.

But I am not ashamed.

The girl who made art from broken shells is still here. Life handed me fracture after fracture, and I am still assembling something that holds.

Because broken does not mean worthless.

If I could turn shattered shells into something worthy of framing, I can do the same with the pieces of myself.

They may step away -- but I remain.