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 grew and multiplied. 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 I 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.
I can’t help you.
Who am I to help you with how to live a better life? I’m a nobody. I had my shot and chose to live quietly and privately, taking care of the kids, cleaning, kind of cooking, some self loathing here and there, and I still question all of my life choices every now and then. But I’m all right. It’s a full life. One day I’ll believe it as much as I know it. I can’t prescribe how you should live yours though. I know it takes a lot of deep work to leave behind those things holding you down, to find what you’re made for. That deep work is painful. I don’t recommend it. But if you can get through it, there’s beauty on the other side.
APRIL 14, 2022
Have you heard of the story of Job?
He suffers a great loss. He loses all of his family, all of his riches, and then finally falls very sick. His friends come to see him. And they can see that Job is in great pain.
Job then cries out to God. Wails. Calls out the injustice against him. Shakes his fist at the big guy — why would you let this happen? He’s yelling in honest anger.
He’s an idiot.
That’s what his friends think. They tell Job how great God is and how dare he talk to God like that.
It’s not what God wants to hear.
But do you know who God blesses in the end?
Job. God blesses Job.
It’s Summer’s birthday and we celebrated. Her dad sang her a song about how lovely she is. I took a video, because it feels like the kind of thing she’ll want to look back on.
August was happy too, eyes wide and watching us, taking it all in.
Later that night we got ready for bed, both kids sat down with me to read. I was washed over by satisfaction.
What if my whole day is aimed at ensuring we have an unrushed, overflowing, bedtime routine? Would that be a fulfilling life?
The curious thing about life is, you only get to live it once.
I wonder if this is the last year for Bluish.
JULY 12, 2023
God, please help me be honest.
Show me who I am and what I was made for. Remind me, you’re not simple minded. And your presence never changes.
I tiptoed out of their bedroom, thinking I would drop by the studio to finish up something late that night. Before I could leave, the kids called out to kiss me again. They wanted to hug and play some more. I told them no, and the little one started to cry. I went back and picked him up, carried him, kissed him, and then tickled the older one, making her laugh. A moment later, they whispered to each other and then announced, “you may go after you kiss us on the lippies!”
Lippies.
Is this what joy feels like?
OCTOBER 4, 2024
Thinking small is not the same as humility.
Maybe motherhood is learned. Not since we became mothers, but since we were daughters.
There is a time to rest, a time to work, and a time to work hard. May you go ahead without shame, without guilt, and without fear that you’ve gotten it wrong.
These days everything takes longer. I could say it’s the distraction, the indecision, and people pleasing. But I don’t talk to myself like that anymore.
a note for you
I’m so glad you’re here.
A lot of what you see in this edit was from an evening in March, when friends old and new showed up to celebrate. Much of that evening was a surprise to me, especially the book — a printed copy of the published stories I wrote.
And much of this edit was inspired by that evening, the cake, and the shift that happened. It’s a privilege to grow old, and even more so with loved ones.
This edit though, is not about time, not about a birthday, and not about me. Because we’re all becoming someone — question is who.
I hope you give yourself space to see it through.
Note to self
Scribbles from the last few years were etched with anxiety and regret. Lately, I’ve been writing less. So remember now, write about happy things, too.
Those patterns are in the past. This decade is about joy.
STILL, BECOMING
The question is who
SHOP HERE
thank you for a decade
I’ve thought about it more than once, whether Bluish has overstayed its welcome. And I’ve decided that Bluish will stay. Here’s to the years to come.
EPILOGUE
Dear motherhood,
You prune and you heal, you’re vast and misunderstood, a metaphor for things unsaid, a blessing that some of us can hold.
A decade later, I know that you are good for my soul.