We Are the Lupines
Written by Olivia Franco
You would think that the breaking would have happened in the doctor’s office. You would think it would happen on the Zoom meeting while we got our second diagnosis. Maybe it would happen after the IEP meeting didn’t go as planned.
You would think it would happen after packing the kids back into the car after a long park day—he played alone because the other kids were grossed out by his drool and weirded out by his loud verbal noises. You would think it would be at the family parties. Everyone enjoying themselves while you chase your child around, hoping they don’t meltdown. It might be after you realized they can’t have access to their diapers anymore, quietly scrubbing the floor in hopes the smell won’t stay. It might be around the holidays, when you hope this is the year they will understand gift opening.
But it isn’t. At least it wasn’t for me.
It was slow. Gradual. Just one day, when it all weighed a little too heavy. The day I stopped pivoting. Time slowed down, my chest sank, but the world kept moving, and I had to too. I couldn’t help but feel how slow my heart was beating. My eyes felt heavy. I felt frozen. It was the first time in all these years that I couldn’t pivot anymore, maybe the first time in my life I truly felt this. Every bit of resilience, gone. Dissipated into the air, as if I had truly just run out.
Motherhood for me was like a slow burn. It wasn’t consuming me like a wildfire; it was creeping into all areas of my life. I was introduced to a new part of my journey: dread. My brain couldn’t tell the difference between a warzone and anticipating the day with my child. Counting down until bedtime just to lie there and think about all the things I could’ve done better. You don’t realize how much damage the fire caused until you turn around and start looking. Where is the lush green grass anymore? You keep moving. You could have anticipated a drought, but you would never have anticipated the fire. Somewhere between survival and exhaustion, I looked for moments to breathe.
I remember one day we walked alongside a field in Livermore, California. Hot, dry, steep hills all around. I searched for something to focus on during my short-lived hike. I leaned down and snapped a photo of a beautiful flower, the Arroyo Lupine.
I didn’t look at this image for ten months. And then, one day, I came back to it—the photo of what seemed like a random purple flower, and something pulled me in. The Arroyo Lupine, native to California, a tall, spiky purple flower, representing resilience and perseverance because it blooms even in harsh conditions. I sat quietly, grief and hope in my heart. Life is not about thriving when you’re in survival. We are not the flowers that are simply dainty and sweet, the ones that wilt and die quickly without their water and sun. We are the Lupines, built of resilience and hope even after disaster and ruin. Through sleepless nights, setbacks, and the slow burn of motherhood, we, like the Lupines, keep standing, growing, blooming, even when the world around us feels harsh.
And so, on days when you look back and feel the weight of every moment, remember: you will bloom too.
Olivia Franco
I am a wife and mom of three children. I have a sweet, and dear to my heart, stepdaughter and two incredibly resilient and bold little boys. My oldest son has an ultra-rare disease called DHX30. His journey transformed my life and shaped me into the woman I am. I am deeply devoted to advocating for him and cherishing my family. My sisters and their babies are everything to me.
