Doubt. And the moth.

moth Friday afternoon I find myself in bed for a nap, not my usual move. Naps are not the easiest thing for me right now. I am in this constant go-go-go state.

A few hours later my blood felt hot and my skin was shivering.

Fever. Back ache. Just ouch.

I cancelled my plans and surrendered to the jabbing pain in all my limbs, tossing and turning, grabbing motrin, feeling crazy alone.

The things we forget when living alone, like what happens when we get sick. Or can't hang the basketball hoop we are so excited to give the kids because we have no ladder and can't reach.

When I feel like I can't mistep, it isn't safe to stop, to feel, to cry, to process - because I am taking care of these little lives - something bigger than my control comes down and places its hand over my heart.

And so the fever, from heart to body. Shivering. Sweating. Freezing.

Humbled into needing when I am scared to need.

I doubt all of it. Did I really think I could do this? Run my business, parent three kids, maintain the Loft, feed us, keep us happy?

The fever. So alone.

In the morning soup and coconut water from the man who co-parents these amazing kids with me. Who has never made me feel wrong for my decision to be with myself.

Blessed. I am blessed.

Doubt. A shit-ton.

I can't be sick, I need to work, to go, to move, to cloud my head in busy.

An entire weekend in the bed of clouds. Freezing. Sweating. Doubting all of me. The kind of torture a fever can often bring on to the mind. In just 48 hours. In just 48 hours I feel wiped of my faith, of my rainbows, of my beauty. I struggle to look in the mirror as I pass it by.

When the fever lifts I feel wrong, out of sorts, sad. I can't find the pulse of my magic after having been drained.

I ask the Universe to help me find my love. In the form of a butterfly. I ask for a butterfly. Within 48 hours. (Read the prompt here.)

The first 24 go by and I am impatient. I have never had a manifesting timeline before. 6 months is my window, though I do find things appear within three days most of the time. 48 hours feels like so much to believe in.

I imagine for the first 24 hours every possible way the butterfly will find its way to me. I am in a loop of controlling it, of wanting to make it happen my way. The butterfly will be blue, like the one on Chloe's crib, which we never used. It will come to me this way, this way, this way, this way.

After 24 hours I am impatient. It isn't coming. I have lost my magic. And then the release on the grasp of control of everything I have been trying to control. I surrender. I cry every 10 minutes. I forget about the butterfly and feel myself letting go of control. I know in my head it is an opening but all it feels like post fever, all alone, is the deepest pain. I cry some more.

On the way to bring the boys to school we have to stop at their dad's house to grab their lunchboxes. We walk in and there is a package waiting for me. I urge the boys to hurry so we aren't late and go into the kitchen to open the package.

Inside there is a little blue book. I open to the first page. I cry. Again. (Try ovulating post fever and seriously, the tears!)

I know in my head it is a moth. I asked for a butterfly. I was sent a moth.

Giving up control to faith is the lesson I am here to learn over and over.

I Google... is a butterfly the same as a moth?

My best friend texts me :: hey you've been super quiet and I am worried. i can give you space but this just doesn't feel like you.

I tell her about the moth.

I tell her about the butterfly.

She tells me that she wants me to find softness for myself. She knows that the moth is my butterfly.

And she knows that the butterfly came to me as a moth.

Later that day I am in the coffee shop and run into a girlfriend. I catch her up on my heart, she catches me up on hers.

Then she talks about butterflies.

Doubt. A shit-ton.

Blessed. I am blessed.

In just 48 hours.