Thanking the Universe for Beyoncé
7.5 years into parenting, I’m still grateful for the woman who carried me through my ragey, exhausted, nipple-cracked nights.
It’s that time of year again—when we’re all supposedly swimming in gratitude. Reflecting. Journaling. Making lists of things we’re thankful for, or reposting minimalist Instagram graphics about peace and presence while ignoring our inboxes and our dishes and the bag of rotting clementines at the bottom of the fridge.
So in the spirit of year-end reflection, let me just say this:
I am grateful AF for Beyoncé.
(And AirPods. But we’ll get there.)
I’m 7.5 years into this parenting journey now. Long past those early months of round-the-clock feeds. But back when my first was a baby and I was absolutely shredded from the inside out—sleep-deprived beyond belief, back at work, still breastfeeding, still doing most (read: all) of the overnights because my husband’s fellowship training > my “cool, flexible, supportive” tech job—I clung to Lemonade like it was life support.
Which, in some ways, it was.
It was the only thing keeping me awake during feeds at 2:07am, 3:41am, 4:26am. The only thing that cut through the fog when I was pacing the hallway, bouncing a baby back to sleep while trying desperately not to fall asleep myself—because I’d been told that if I even drifted off near him, he might die. Instant SIDS. No nuance, no mercy.
And while I resented him a fuck-ton during those nights—while I felt the hot, prickly rage of being needed that hard, that constantly—I somehow, miraculously, still held space for his experience. His pain. His reflux. His fatigue. His yearning to cuddle and co-sleep. And my growing, grief-stricken knowledge that neither of those were options. Not safely. Not in the state I was in.
So I let Beyoncé hold me. Growling, healing, raging, testifying through my AirPods. Keeping me upright. Keeping me company. Giving me something to hold onto besides the weight of expectation and the body of a baby I loved and resented all at once.
I took notes back then. Disjointed, bleary, diligent notes. And today—December 31st, with childcare suddenly canceled, end-of-year deadlines in flames, and back-to-back solo-parenting days ahead—I read through some of them.
And weirdly? What I feel isn’t regret or exhaustion or shame.
I feel gratitude.
Gratitude for how far we’ve come. For the blurry miracle of making it to this point. For the hard-earned, embodied knowing that everything is a phase. Even the brutal stuff. Especially the brutal stuff.
That the days are so fucking long—and yet the years are, against all odds, somehow incredibly short.
So yes, this is a gratitude post. A tired, real one. Today, I am:
Thanking the universe for Beyoncé.
Thanking the universe for AirPods.
And thanking the universe for change. Slow, quiet, relentless change.
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