Today, someone referred to my son as the Milky Way.
Not a star. Not the moon.
The Milky Way.
It wasn’t said lightly. It came from a woman who studies parapsychology — intuitive, grounded, and thoughtful in a way that makes you listen a little more closely. She looked me in the eye and said simply:
“He’s the Milky Way.”
And it cracked something open in me.
Not because I hadn’t seen the light in him before — I had. I’ve seen flashes of it for years. But this was different. This wasn’t about pride or accomplishment. It was about essence.
It was about recognizing that this person I raised, this man I once held in my arms, now carries a stillness, a depth, a quiet understanding that seems to stretch beyond what I ever expected — or maybe even what I thought I might reach myself.
He doesn’t walk through life like most men.
He’s not armored. He doesn’t deflect with bravado.
He meets people where they are — without judgment, without rushing to fix or perform.
And the truth is… sometimes that makes me feel self-conscious. I notice the reflexes in me — the ego, the assumptions, the protective layers — and then I see how gently he doesn’t operate from those places.
And I’m both amazed and a little undone.
But maybe that’s what the Milky Way does.
It reminds you of how vast the universe is.
It humbles you.
It calls you to stillness.
And it opens your heart.
That’s what he’s done for me — not by trying to teach or lead, but simply by being who he is. Accepting. Steady. Expansive.
There’s no manual for how to parent a soul that feels older than yours.
