Vachon Imagined

The people who believe in you—the ones who stand behind you no matter what—teach you something profound about love.

They see the failures.

The mistakes.

The moments when you completely miss the mark and think, Wow, I really could have handled that better.

And somehow, they stay.

Being a mother has taught me more about love than anything else in this world.

And it has not been through the perfect moments.

It has been through the messy ones.

The child who, on most days, openly announces that he prefers his dad because, in his words, “Dad is cool.”

Thank you for that important feedback.

I am glad we have established my official position in the family hierarchy.

Apparently, Dad is the exciting one, and I am the person who makes sure he has clean clothes, food, bedtime, and survives long enough to tell everyone how cool Dad is.

A beautiful arrangement.

He tells me this without hesitation because children have a remarkable ability to deliver the truth with absolutely no concern for how it lands.

He doesn’t mean it to hurt me. He simply exists in the beautiful honesty of childhood.

And yes, he hurts my feelings.

He makes me so frustrated sometimes I feel like I could visibly burst into flames.

There are moments where I think, How can one small human being create this much emotional activity in another human being?

But then I remember: I do the exact same thing to him.

Because love is not found in never being frustrated.

Love is found in what remains after frustration passes.

My son knows I love him.

I know he knows because love is something we recognize before we can explain it. When we put down our armor, our defenses, and all the stories we create about what love should look like, we simply know.

There are people who return to your mind again and again. Sometimes it doesn’t make sense. Sometimes it doesn’t fit neatly into our ideas of healthy boundaries or logical expectations.

Yet it remains.

That is the mystery of love.

It does not always arrive in a perfect package.

Sometimes it arrives covered in fingerprints, unfinished homework, exhaustion, and a child asking for one more snack after you have already cleaned the kitchen.

I lose my temper with my son.

He loses his temper with me.

My husband says we fight like brother and sister.

I tend to think we fight like two people who have reached the end of their emotional resources and are considering moving into separate houses.

But then, somehow, the storm passes.

And my son tells me he knows I love him.

And I believe him.

Because I have shown up for him when he didn’t feel worthy of being shown up for.

And I have shown up for myself after I have failed him—with impatience, exhaustion, frustration, and all the moments where I was simply done.

Because love is not proven by never getting it wrong.

Love is proven by returning.

By repairing.

By choosing again.

Until you know who you are in love, you do not know what you are capable of loving through.

You do not know the depth of your patience, your forgiveness, your sacrifice, or your willingness to remain when life is not beautiful.

Motherhood has been one of the greatest doorways into that kind of love.

A love that does not depend on perfection.

A love that does not disappear during the storms.

A love that keeps showing up.

Even when everyone involved is tired, emotional, and occasionally wondering if they can all just have five minutes of silence.

Because in the end, love was never about getting it right every moment.

It was about being there.

Again and again.