May doesn't arrive with fireworks.
It's not loud like December, or full of declarations like January. It's softer than that—like a hand resting on your shoulder, like a long exhale after a season that asked too much of you.
There's something about May that invites you to feel again.
To come back into your skin.
To notice what's been growing quietly, even when you weren't looking.
And so this May, I found myself wanting to write a letter.
Not to anyone in particular—but to the three women who have shaped the rhythm of my heart more than anyone else.
My mother.
My daughter.
Myself.
To My Mother:
I see you now.
When I was younger, I didn't understand your silence.
You never made a scene. You never raised your voice.
You moved through life like someone who'd learned how to carry the weight of the world with both grace and muscle memory.
And I mistook that for distance.
But now—years later—I realize: you weren't quiet because you had nothing to say.
You were quiet because you were listening.
Because you were surviving.
Because you were giving what no one ever thought to give you first: space.
I think of you now whenever I move through a hard day with calm hands.
Whenever I leave something unsaid because peace matters more than proving a point.
And I think of you when I wear this ring.
The one with the green stone that glows like a secret.
It reminds me of you—not because it’s flashy, but because it’s steady.
You were the first forest I ever knew.
The first soft place I ever leaned into.
The first person who made stillness feel safe.
To My Daughter:
Take your time.
The world will tell you to bloom.
To be bright and fast and undeniable.
To produce, to post, to be proud of how busy you are.
But here’s the truth I wish I had learned earlier:
You are allowed to root first.
You are allowed to take your time.
To figure it out slowly.
To change your mind.
To rest when your soul says stop.
You don’t owe anyone your constant flowering.
I hope when you feel lost, you look for green.
Walk among trees.
Touch something that’s alive.
Let the wind tell you what no person ever could:
You are part of something ancient. And becoming takes time.
When I wear my emerald ring, I think about handing it to you one day.
Not because it’s beautiful—but because it knows something.
It knows how to wait.
It knows how to grow without showing off.
It knows how to carry light without demanding attention.
Just like you will.
To Myself:
You’re doing better than you think.
I don’t say that enough.
You’ve carried so much. And still—here you are.
Getting up. Trying again. Learning how to rest without guilt.
You are not behind.
You are not late to your own life.
You are not invisible, even if no one is clapping.
You’re here.
And you’re learning how to belong to yourself in a world that keeps asking you to perform.
This May, I hope you pause.
Not to reset or fix or achieve—
but to honor the version of you that simply made it through.
I hope you let softness win.
I hope you wear something that feels like a hand on your heart.
I hope you remember that green doesn’t always mean go—
Sometimes it means stay.
Stay with yourself. Stay with the moment. Stay with the quiet.
That, too, is progress.
A Final Thought
Gifts that feel like May aren’t loud.
They don’t sparkle to impress or shout to be seen.
They linger.
They remind us of where we come from.
Of who we’ve learned from.
Of who we’re still becoming.
So whether you’re celebrating your mother, your daughter, or just the part of yourself that’s still healing—
May this season offer you a gift that feels like green.
Like growth.
Like grace.
And may you always remember:
You are worthy of softness.
Of slowness.
Of something that feels, deeply and quietly, like you.