There’s a hummingbird I’ve come to know—
a small, glimmering visitor who often perches on the same branch of the pear tree near our home.
Almost always in the same spot.
Morning and evening.
She became a part of my rhythm. My quiet ritual.
Every day, as I walked the dog or took my daughter to daycare, I would glance up and look for her.
Sometimes, she would lift off just as I passed, as if to greet me with her iridescent wings.
Once, I even saw her silhouetted against the full moon—
a moment so surreal and sacred, it etched itself into me.
And then—one summer, she disappeared.
No warning. No explanation. Just… gone.
I told myself stories to calm my worried heart.
That maybe she had gone on a little vacation. Packed a tiny suitcase.
Took a break from her hummingbird duties. That she’d be back.
And when she did return weeks later, I was overjoyed.
I remember smiling for days. I even told my husband—
“I don’t know what this is, but it matters to me.”
She left again this season, but this time, my heart is steadier.
Because I learned something: She’s a rufous hummingbird.
And though they don’t migrate in the traditional sense, the females go quiet during nesting.
They raise their young entirely on their own—incubating, feeding, protecting.
All of it.
That struck something deep in me.
It reminded me of mothering.
How, no matter our situation, so many of us do the tender, invisible, all-consuming labor of nurturing.
How even with a partner, we often carry the emotional weight.
The complexity.
The stitching-together of needs, histories, and hopes.
And sometimes, we disappear too. We go quiet.
Because we’re incubating something sacred.
Because our energy is stretched so thin we vanish from ourselves.
To others, we may seem withdrawn or checked out. Like we packed a suitcase and slipped away.
But we’re still here—doing the work beneath the branches.
And like the hummingbird, we return.
Not the same, but with new wings.
So if you’re reading this from a place where you feel far from yourself—
where the weight of care feels heavier than your wings—
may you remember:
You are not gone.
You are tending.
And you will return.
And if small things call to you—
a watercolor brush, a walk in the woods, a poem, a moment of song—
follow them.
They are the threads that stitch you back to yourself.
You’re not lost.
You’re just loving something so much, it asked all of you for a while.
IFS-inspired reflection prompts for you:
Is there a part of you that feels like it’s disappeared? What might it be tending to?
What helps you remember who you are, even when you feel far away from yourself?
f a small act could begin your return, what might it be?
A Gentle Reconnection Ceremony
A quiet way to come back to yourself — slowly, kindly, without force.
You don’t need to do anything grand.
You don’t need to fix or figure it all out.
This is just a soft landing.
Begin with:
- A small cable or thread — real or imagined — connecting you from heart to hand, hand to Earth.
- A warm cup of tea or water, held like an offering to yourself.
- A hand on your heart, or wherever it feels welcome today.
- A breath, low and slow. Inhale through your nose,
exhale like a whisper: “This is for you.”
If it feels right, say quietly:
“I’m here now.
I’ve come back.
You don’t have to rush to meet me.
I’ll sit with you, however long you need.”
Stay for a few moments.
No pressure. No goal.
Just presence.
Like the hummingbird at the feeder —
resting between flights.
