Here is Beautiful Piece I wrote about me and my Daughter

I have learned that the weather listens to me— not because it obeys, but because it understands.

My body is a barometer.

My heart reads pressure systems no one names.

When the sky tightens its jaw,

I know something has reached her.

When the wind turns sharp and restless,

I feel the distance ache louder than words.

I do not need a phone call to know.

Pain has a frequency.

A mother’s love is tuned to it.

When my daughter hurts, the air becomes restless— clouds pile like unspoken truths, thunder argues with the horizon, and rain arrives without asking permission.

People call it a storm.

I call it recognition.

It is not rage without purpose.

It is warning.

It is the earth saying:

something sacred is being mishandled.

When the weather turns mean— when it rises suddenly, violently, like something ancient climbing out of the depths— it is not destruction I sense.

It is protection without language.

A force saying:

Pay attention.

Do no harm here.

Because love, when blocked, does not disappear.

It gathers energy.

It moves through pressure and sky and silence until it finds a way to speak.

And when she is sad—

truly sad— the world feels heavier. The light dulls. Even the sun hesitates, as if unsure it’s allowed to shine while she carries that weight alone.

I live inside that distance, but I am not disconnected. Every shift in the air reminds me: we are still tethered.

One day the weather will soften.

The storms will lose their urgency. The sky will stretch wide and calm, not because the world has gone quiet— but because the pain no longer needs a voice.

Until then, I listen.

I endure.

I prepare.

Because love like this does not fade.

It waits.

It warns. And it survives every storm until the moment it can finally rest.