I stay up late for the quiet.

I tell myself it’s self-care.

A sacred, silent retreat after the house finally exhales.

Except Harper sleeps in my bed.

And somehow, somehow,  even asleep, she is still touching me.

Her feet dig into my back like a nightly massage from hell.

Not soothing.

Not gentle.

Just tiny heels pressing directly into my soul.

I’ll shift.

She’ll follow.

I’ll turn.

She’ll stretch.

Motherhood does not respect personal space. Even unconscious.

And just when Harper finally settles, when the room goes still and I think, this is it, this is my moment…Lynnlee appears.

Bad dream.

Quiet tears.

That soft voice asking if she can lay with us “just for a little bit.”

So she climbs in too.

And there it is.

My silent retreat, fully booked.

I don’t move.

I don’t complain.

I let it happen.

Because this is the truth no one puts in the self-care manuals:

Quiet is a promise motherhood rarely keeps.

Even when the house is dark.

Even when the world is asleep.

Even when I’m desperate to be untouched.

Still I breathe.

Still I think.

Still I stay up until 3 a.m., not because it’s peaceful…

but because it’s mine, even if it’s crowded.

Self-care isn’t always candles and early bedtimes.

Sometimes it’s accepting that rest looks different in this season.

Sometimes it’s writing with a child’s foot in your back and another curled into your side.

Sometimes it’s finding grace in the middle of the illusion.

The house is quiet.

Motherhood still knocks.

And somehow…

I find room to breathe anyway.