An Observed Braveheart

I have never seen anyone so tired. The sum of my all-nighters in college could not compare to the sacrificial loss of sleep she—and every mother—endures. Daily, her fatigue engulfs her body and brain—she operates more as a hybrid saint/marathoner without a finish line than a human being. Though, when I truly think of her, it is not the weight of exhaustion that I see when I look at her—it has never reached her eyes. Even on the days when Murphy’s law reigns and tears unwillingly flood her two hazel pools, there remains a twinkle in them: she looks at her son with utter adoration, her husband with patience, the world with hope. Despite her body’s protest against anything that would take place in a gym, she repeatedly wraps her son up in her arms with a renewed strength unmatched by any heavy lifter. And though at times finding a word to complete a thought ends with “you know what I’m trying to say,” she is resolute and savvy about breastfeeding, cloth diapers, and homemade sweet potato purees. This woman—wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend—and her daily song sung amidst an existence speckled with imperfections, embodies bravery not as a personality characteristic or an event, but a decision from one passing moment to the next. The decision to put her feet on the floor way too early in the morning, to greet her fussy adorable creature with a smile, to thank her husband, to resolve she is enough every day—she is the bravest person I know. 

Village Journalist,


Krystal Donovan2 Comments