The Friday Unwind 012: Letter to Benjamin's Mother
Location: Corn Island Airport, Nicaragua. On motherhood and expectations
Fridays are for unwinding. Inward journeys, outward wanderings, departing flights to nowhere but good memories — all are welcome here. Take all the space you need. In this series, unwind and unravel with me into a daydream, into a place that feels like a Friday spent elsewhere.
Welcome to the Life Is In Love With Me newsletter if you’re new. If you’re a regular recipient of these reminders of love, welcome back! 🌹🥭🌹🥭🌹🥭
Let’s get straight into this letter to a friend made in flight. Enjoy x
[Letter 1: for islands off the coast of Nicaragua]
Dear Laura,
I am very glad you sat beside me at the airport. It was time to say goodbye to the home I had temporarily made with the island, the chickens in the front yard and the rocking chair on the patio. To me, Big Corn Island was where the fish was unmistakably fresh, where the taxi system follows the outline of the island and is a journey shared with strangers picked up along the way, 20 córdobas wherever you go. I describe it as feeling as though the land decolonised itself, the lilac sunset skies speak with the dense green of the banana leaf to create a new moment, the horses, cows, sheep, (bulls!) walk the street unwatched. It is the definition of lush, and it had its chaos too. I had rushed to get to the airport, uncharacteristically, and you had strolled in without any panic despite being the last one, baby with dancing legs strapped to your chest. You seemed to be the only one who knew the plane would be an hour and a half delayed. Something you said to me, toothless grinned baby on the edge of your knees reaching for the straps of my bag, stayed with me ever since that day. I told you that I was travelling, that I was making my way through Central America as a nomad (I was just getting used to the title). You said ‘good’ and seemed very sure that it was. After a short pause, you said “People rushed me to have a kid, I never listened to them and I recommend you do the same. I did everything I wanted to do before-” more bouncing on the edge of your knee - “Benjamin.” Benjamin, a real island baby to me, had adopted your calm and was also unphased by the frustration of being in a hot airport.
I remember this conversation because it was the first time a mother had delighted in my lack of urgency to have children. You told me about your career in psychology, your observations, you explained the hostel you had run here, the places you had been, the young woman who had visited the island solo and writing just like me, I imagine how you must’ve affirmed her childlessness the way you did mine. I also remember what else you said: “The minute the nurse gives you your baby after giving birth, it is like a ticking time bomb - one two three boom!- and then that’s you, for the rest of your life. Make sure you are ready for that,” you said it in a way no other mother has.
Your frankness about motherhood that day in the airport while we forgot we were waiting to depart, gave me language to explain my choice, boldness, and knowing. I’ve told many people about what you’ve said, offered it to my friends who are still not ready to have babies but feel the societal pressure. I tell them how genuinely happy you seemed, to be Benjamin’s mother, to be yourself, how you had been so many other things before that that you seemed so well prepared for this cycle of existence. I think you might’ve been a catalyst. Since speaking with you, every mother I meet usually in her 30s, offers me some iteration of your point, celebrating that I am exploring from my own desire and not choosing to have children out of fear or shame of getting older. I cherish this advice, it feels sisterly and is always welcomed.
I don’t know if I plan to go back to Big Corn Island, I actually sense in my gut that I don’t need to (I imagine you nodding in firm agreement as a kindred world lover/liver: ‘there is so much more world to see’, I imagine your encouragement), but I will always wonder how different my trip would’ve been if I didn’t have that conversation with you on my way out. I feel we met for a reason - I think we meet everyone for a reason - but especially this conversation I am sure of. Your approach to motherhood, entering it, is one I have adopted, so thank you. I also never told you how I admired how you stood up for your son’s adventurousness, allowing him to be curious about his environment and not forcing an excessively sterile childhood. I saw how the elder women were annoyed that he was touching whatever he wanted, barefoot, but you understood the importance of letting kids be kids to build strong immune systems. You did it so casually. I see this and remember it on purpose.
I hope your visit to Leon was incredible. When we eventually got off the plane after sitting together and yapping until the small plane landed, I saw how your family were waiting to embrace you. They seemed so warm and ready to take Benjamin out of your arms and then swap and place you in theirs. I hope the love lingers wherever you find yourself.
🌹🥭
Thank you for your presence in this Friday unwind letter. Last week I hinted at this letter's arrival. I’ve realised that there are just so many humans that I would like to write to. My travels have offered me interactions and friends in abundance. I think I’d like to make this into a series - letters to people I have met in the world - what do you say?
Thank you to those who have already booked a place on my Writing from abundance:: Writers resisting survival mode workshop taking place on Sunday 30th June. Since sharing it with you last week, I’ve appreciated seeing the names and registrations of familiar and new writers to share space with. It’s not too late to join! I’d love to write and resist with you. This workshop is priced at $10.10 USD. If you’d like to attend but do not feel able to finance it right now, please reach out. I have made space for a few free tickets so there is that option if you’d need it. Meeting with you and gathering would complete my June and hopefully help you shed any survivalist tendencies as we move into a new month.
I am also sharing some of my favourite Caribbean writers during June which is Read Caribbean month. So far I have shared Guyanese poet Grace Nichols and Belizean folk icon Ms. Leela Vernon. Feel free to dip in to these short threads and join the conversation. As I travel through Caribbean lands, my appreciation for the literature and stories deepens. This is another way to share that with you.
Finally, thank you to my latest paid reader, Musarrat for the support and heart-warming words. As I said, your note left me tearful. Thank you. These love letters and travel memories remain free, always. This is an attempt to keep this space as an offering and resource for all. For a while, I’ve reduced annual paid subscriptions to $48.88 (from $88). I am preparing to show up with my paid readers in a new way and in the meantime, I’d love to grow and increase the paid support for this space. Paid readers receive 111 daily affirmations and a travel backstory upon subscription.
Thank you, so much, for being here. Below I share some more writings that I hope you will enjoy.
An Origin Story: Food Poisoning In Mexico Turned Me Nomadic
Pisces season and the overstimulated artist, a remedy
The infantilization of kind people
A story about quitting my job to write
Musings on Black nomadism (pt 1)
The Friday unwind 004: When there is nothing to become
Love,
Amara Amaryah
YES to that potential series - I think that could be so beautiful, engaging and fascinating!!! Do it!!!!