She doesn't know what she's doing anymore. Where does her art lie, her heart lie, her devotion? She dreams of her mother often and finds herself sobbing at her desk in the afternoon because she craves to be mothered / smothered in maternal affection. There is nothing remotely close to it in her life. She hugs her baby instead.
She thumbs through the magazines at the bookstore. She focuses on the ones that feature her peers. As the pages fan to the left, her confidence takes a dive. Everyone does this so much better than her, she thinks. But she's still glowing from the two hours spent having every inch of her skin, her temple worshiped by the man she calls love. He adores her and this has always been enough.
She reads a post by a medicine woman she admires from a distance. The woman is all truth, spilling her story liquid gold. She realized in that moment that we are all just doing our best. Humble, calm, quiet, center. She wants things she cannot have. She has things that others want. She craves. She writhes. She retreats. She surrenders.
And in the surrender, she finds a teardrop of peace.