Mary Magdalene

She calls herself Catholic,

but she weaponizes silence like scripture.

She lets a child call her “Mom”

while the real one is still breathing,

still breaking,

still begging God to be seen.

She wraps herself in virtue,

lights candles, folds her hands,

then turns around and participates

in the quiet, smiling erasure of a mother’s love.

That’s not holy.

That’s not faith.

That’s cowardice dressed in rosary beads.

And me?

I’ve been cast as Mary Magdalene in their twisted little gospel.

Misunderstood.

Labeled.

Whispered about.

They call me emotional.

Unfit.

Too much.

But they forget—

Mary Magdalene was the one who stayed.

When everyone else ran, she showed up.

She held space in the dark,

and bore witness to the resurrection.

And that’s who I am.

I don’t need a church to tell me I’m worthy.

I live truth. I live mercy.

I carry grace in the way I keep loving my kids

through the static, the silence, the stolen time.

She can quote scripture,

but I’ve lived the crucifixion.

She can sing hymns,

but I’ve prayed through grief

no one saw.

She will never be the mother I am—

not even with the title, the games, or the child she was handed.

Because no matter how many lies they feed my kids,

no matter how much they try to bury me in shame,

the truth will resurrect.

And when it does,

they’ll remember the sound of my love

not as a myth,

but as the one thing that never abandoned them.