There’s a version of you the world never notices. But I do.

They don’t see the pieces of yourself you’ve had to rebuild, the parts forever changed by grief and hope coexisting, the way you show up anyway— even on the days you’re breaking.

There’s a version of you the world never notices.

But I do.

They say, “you’re so strong.”

But they don’t see the nights you cry yourself to sleep.

They say, “you’re so brave.”

But they don’t see how worry knots itself in your stomach until you feel sick.

They say, “I don’t know how you do it.”

But they don’t see that love leaves you with no other choice.

They say, “you’re so positive.”

But they don’t see how you quietly prepare for every worst-case scenario.

They say, “I’m so glad it’s over.”

But they don’t see the new diagnoses, the therapies, the appointments, the everyday mountain you climb without stopping.

They say, “you look so happy.”

But they don’t see the grief you carry in your chest— the weight and the love you walk with every day.

They say, “you make it look easy.”

But they don’t see the lists, the schedules,

the mental load you never get to set down.

They say, “he’s lucky to have you.”

But they don’t see the moments you wonder

if you’re doing enough,

if you’re missing something,

if you’re giving him the world he deserves.

They say, “you’re doing amazing.”

But they don’t see the guilt that creeps in when you’re tired, or the quiet prayers you whisper in the dark hoping you’re making the right choices.

They say, “it’ll all work out.”

But they don’t see the hours spent advocating, researching, fighting— loving your child with a fierceness that leaves you both exhausted and alive.

They say, “you’re so calm.”

But they don’t see how your heart races in every waiting room, how you hold your breath for every result, only exhaling when he’s safe in your arms.

They say, “you’re such a good mom.”

But they don’t see the pieces of yourself you’ve had to rebuild, the parts forever changed by grief and hope coexisting, the way you show up anyway— even on the days you’re breaking.

And they’ll never fully see

how your love stretches across realities—

how you mother in a hundred different ways:

through appointments, therapies, tubes, devices, hopes, and fears.

They don’t see it.

But I do.