What I know after nearly ten years is that Literary Mama is in itself a gem. As you spin it slowly in the sunshine, it sparkles and shifts, and some new facet is revealed with each new poem, essay, story, review, or profile we publish, with each new editor who shines their own light upon it.
So much of our anxiety stems from love, and the desire to be the scaffolding for the lives of those we love. But I want to remind us that we, as mothers, are also finite. We cannot hold up the world indefinitely without it breaking our backs.