Still, becoming
Welcome to this edit
a TIMELESS SCRAPBOOK
I started Bluish from my kitchen counter, when I was struggling from the baby blues. That was ten years ago. Motherhood has cut deep, and it has brought unspeakable joy. Ten years later, I know that it is good for my soul.
I’m so glad you’re here. You may not be a mother, but if you’ve stumbled here, there’s probably a story to be told. Some of us start the journey of motherhood and don’t end up a mother. It’s a quiet burden, because motherhood can hurt even before we become one. Whatever your journey, I’m so glad you’re here.
Bluish has taught me this — motherhood is complicated, there’s a lot to be understood, but it isn’t a problem to be solved.
I’m so glad you’re here.
I turned 40 this year. We celebrated with friends from decades ago, and some I’d met in the last year or so. Everyone gathered in a vintage inspired room, warm light glowed.
That evening, I looked around and saw the versions of myself. Turns out, who you’ve been become apparent in those around you. And people you used to know, who are not in the room anymore, that’s telling, too.
If you ever wonder, just look around you.
Because we’re always becoming, the question is who.
This edit is inspired by half a decade of collected scribbles, notes, stories, memories, and thoughts on turning 40. But most importantly, this edit is about — you becoming you.
Sarah
Let’s get honest about one thing.
I’m not indifferent about success. Success on my terms. Success that isn’t folded away in a closet, isn’t pegged to my little ones, isn’t hinged on my marriage.
Success I can call my own.
MAY 10, 2026
Five years ago, life looked a little different.
Bluish was getting a lot of attention, we were in and out of the hospital, trying to understand the long term impact of a birth defect on our newborn child. Anxieties metastasized. There were a lot of tears, it was hard to make decisions, and hard to get out of bed.
There was that time I stood in the milk aisle, overwhelmed by all of the choices. I couldn’t make a decision on which milk to buy. So I stood there, for a very long time.
I should’ve seen someone. Maybe get a prescription. But I didn’t. Because it’d felt petty. There are real problems in the world, you know?
Time slipped away. I don’t mean it romantically. Time moved differently in that motherhood stage. It was postpartum — we already knew. But it wasn’t just postpartum.
Most of the time, it felt like fatigue. Sometimes, it was fog. When it all came pouring out, tears were good, anger was bad.
But it was sadness that worried me the most.
Sadness is not just an inside feeling. It has an outward power. Can we outrun sadness?
I’ve been running a race. I can’t really tell you what for, what the prize is. I can’t say it’s for winning at all.
I think I’ve been running just to keep from losing.
MAY 16, 2021
As much as I could, I ran away.
Bluish had a little office outside our home at the time. Orders, newsletters, self imposed deadlines were all excuses to get away.
Does that sound familiar? The running away.
But God is with you.
And what if that’s not enough?
How could God not be enough? He created the moon and the stars and the air that we breathe. Isn’t this what we tell our little children? To rely on him? Maybe this is a lesson for you, too.
God, I know you can, please restore my child’s little body. Please take away the bitterness, I believe I believe I believe.
Isn’t it harsh, though? To let my child carry this burden forever, so I can learn a lesson?
God will reveal himself to you.
Your child will never be normal.
I want to live well. Be present. Believe firmly in Christ. Love deeply. Forgive wholeheartedly. Use time freely, not frivolously, and abundantly.
SEPTEMBER 9, 2021
God, what is wrong with you? Why would you let this happen? Who are you?
But Imagine
a story
When I was little, Amanda taught me how to play the piano. Every Monday, we sat side by side, reciting the few songs that I knew: Turkey in the Straw, Auld Lang Syne, and Au Clair De La Lune.
I remember taking walks with her to the candy store. She’d reach for the bubble gum on the top row and the sour gummies in the middle — the gum was for her and the gummies were for me. She didn’t need to ask, she knew they were my favourite.
During the winter months we made fewer walks to the candy store. We’d spend those minutes sitting side by side on the piano bench, talking instead. She’d ask me about school, about my friends, and gradually we’d shift our attention to the piano.
Just a few small things, she’d say as she softly adjusted my hunch, my limp fingers and toppled wrist, and then imagine the music as you’re playing.
When the weather got warmer, mom came inside with me instead of dropping me off at the curb. I was getting ready for our lesson, fidgeting with the zipper on my tie-dye book bag when I overheard something about not being able to teach anymore. I looked up from the piano bench and there was mom and Amanda. Mom’s face was somber and Amanda’s back was hunched over, as if she was carrying an invisible weight. At a distance, I heard this: husband and cancer.
Piano lessons turned into a blur. A teacher replaced Amanda but he was nothing like her, he didn’t take me to the candy store and made a fuss about learning to read music. It didn’t take long for mom to question if piano was right for me, and then I quit the lessons altogether.
Thirty years later, here I am fumbling my way through a song for my child.
She’s two and fascinated by anything that makes a sound. It’s been years since I’ve touched a piano. So I take my time imagining the music, replaying nursery rhymes in my head while I feel my way around.
I’m playing terribly. But the keys feel familiar.
And delicate.
And distant.
They remind me of Amanda.
When I last saw her she was a young mom with two little girls. She used to say that I reminded her of her daughters. I wonder now, if she could see me here with my little one, would I remind her of herself?
Sitting at the piano, I try to imagine what it was like.
I imagine the hope in the early days as she watched her husband twirl away with the girls, giggling; and after the cancer metastasized, how she curled up in bed next to him, bereft of feeling.
I imagine her struggle with unpaid bills, hating his life insurance payout, and then hating herself for needing the money to live.
I imagine trying to keep up with their daily routines, desperately rushing the girls out the door to catch the bus — unwilling to be left behind in more ways than one.
And I imagine the silence. Because hearts break quietly, don’t they?
My little one wobbles over and lifts her squishy foot, trying to get beside me on the bench. I pull her up and we sit side by side. Her fingers float across the keys, not quite pressing them down.
We sit like this for a while, her little body leaning on mine, swaying gently as her fingers prance in silence.
Side by side. There’s no sound. But we imagine.
Written by Sarah Cheng.
Originally published in Cocolily Magazine, June 2025.