The Voice in His Head

A Mother's Reflection

I wrote this poem last year. My son is now six.

He doesn't know yet that the voice inside your head isn't just your own—that it was built by someone else's hands before you were old enough to notice. He doesn't know that some people spend decades in the labyrinth of their own mind, trying to find where the cruelty came from, whose words became the walls.

I know.

So I chose differently.

Every word I give him is architecture. Every you are loved, you are enough, your feelings matter is a stone laid in the foundation of whoever he will become. When no one is watching. When life is hard and the only voice left is the one he carries inside.

That's the work, I think. Not perfection. Not protection from pain. Just making sure the internal voice he inherits is one worth listening to.

My son

is five.

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I tell him every day

that he is the most beautiful,

loving boy in the world.

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I tell him his emotions

are his superpower.

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He feels

so deeply,

like a clear spring

with no bottom.

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He loves

so hard

he quakes from it.

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He tells me

I am the best and

most beautiful mama.

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He tells his friends

how much he cares

for them.

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I smile,

because I know —

the praise I give him

is the voice in his head.

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Not shame.

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Not doubt.

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Pure love —

bright,

undiminished.

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May he never

lose that light.

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