Perhaps sleeping in my mother’s warm coat has become a habit.
Or maybe it has become my whole world.
I don’t remember when it started. I was very small then—so small that the world felt loud and too bright, and every sound made my heart jump. My legs were weak, my hands clumsy, and my thoughts were slow like drifting clouds. But one thing I remember clearly is the warmth.
My mother’s coat.
It wrapped around me like a soft nest. Her fur smelled familiar, gentle, and safe. When I pressed my face into her chest, I could hear her heartbeat—steady and calm. That sound told me everything was alright, even when I didn’t understand anything else.
Every morning, when the forest woke up, I was already there—curled against her, half asleep. Birds sang above us, leaves rustled, and light filtered through the trees, but I stayed hidden in her warmth. While others stretched and moved, I stayed still, listening to her breathing.
She never pushed me away.
Sometimes she shifted slightly, adjusting her position so I could stay comfortable. Her arms formed a circle around me, and her coat closed gently, blocking the cold air. When the wind blew, I felt nothing. When the ground was hard, I felt softness. When the world felt uncertain, I felt safe.
Perhaps that’s how the habit formed.
As I grew older, I began to notice other babies. Some climbed early. Some ran ahead. Some slept alone on branches or rocks, proud and brave. I watched them from my mother’s coat, peeking out with one eye, then hiding again.
They looked confident.
I felt small.
Whenever my mother stood up to move, I clung tighter. My fingers curled deep into her fur, my face pressed close. She would pause, glance down, and wait until I settled again before continuing.
She understood.
During the day, she foraged for food. I stayed with her, bouncing gently as she walked. The rhythm of her steps made me sleepy. I didn’t need to see everything; I could feel it through her movements—the careful steps, the sudden pauses, the quiet alertness when something unfamiliar passed nearby.
If I slipped into sleep, she carried me anyway.
Sometimes I dreamed. I dreamed of falling—but then waking instantly to warmth. I dreamed of loud noises—but then hearing her calm breathing. Even in my dreams, her coat was there.
Others tried to encourage me to sleep elsewhere.
One afternoon, when the sun was high and the air was warm, my mother placed me gently on a soft patch of ground. She stayed close, watching me. I sat there for a moment, confused. The ground felt strange—too open, too wide.
I looked up at her.
She didn’t leave. She didn’t rush me. She just waited.
I crawled forward quickly and pressed myself against her again. She sighed softly and wrapped her arm around me once more. Her coat closed, and the familiar darkness returned.
Perhaps sleeping in my mother’s warm coat had become a habit.
Or perhaps it was something deeper.
At night, when the world grew quiet and the air cooled, I held on even tighter. The stars appeared above us, distant and cold. Sounds echoed differently in the dark. Every crack of a branch made my heart beat faster.
But inside her coat, everything stayed the same.
Warm.
Quiet.
Safe.
I listened to her heartbeat until it became part of my own rhythm. When she shifted during the night, I shifted with her, never fully waking. Her warmth never left me.
Days passed. Then weeks.
Slowly, something inside me began to change.
One morning, I woke before her. Sunlight slipped through the leaves, touching the edge of her fur. For the first time, I didn’t press deeper inside. Instead, I peeked out longer than usual.
The world didn’t look as frightening as before.
I watched birds hop nearby. I watched other babies play. I listened to sounds without hiding immediately. My mother stirred, noticing my movement. She looked down at me, her eyes gentle.
She didn’t pull me back in.
She let me choose.
I crawled out just a little—still touching her, still close enough to feel her warmth. The air felt cooler, but not unbearable. The ground felt firm, but not dangerous.
When I hesitated, she reached out and touched me lightly.
“I’m here,” that touch said.
Later that day, I slept again—but not fully inside her coat. I rested against her side, my back still warmed, my face turned toward the open world. It felt strange, like trying something new while keeping one foot in the familiar.
That night, I returned to her coat without hesitation.
Habits don’t disappear all at once.
Some days, I explored more. Other days, I hid completely. And my mother never seemed disappointed. She never forced me out or pulled me back in. She allowed the habit to loosen on its own.
Because she knew something important.
Warmth builds confidence.
Safety creates courage.
Love teaches independence—slowly.
Perhaps sleeping in my mother’s warm coat had become a habit because it was exactly what I needed at the time. Not weakness. Not fear. Just trust.
One day, I will sleep on my own.
One day, I will move ahead without clinging.
One day, I will be the warmth for someone else.
But for now, I am still small.
And my mother’s coat is still warm.
And perhaps… just perhaps…
that is perfectly enough.
