Throwback.

It's July, this year. I'm sitting with my Mama and sister in a church in Frankfurt. Summer shines outside, and we're taking a moment to rest. In our hands we hold pot-plants. In my belly, my daughter kicks and squirms.

Together we soak in the significance of this place. Look at the aisle my Oma will have walked down when she married my Opa here. A time when none of us were born yet - all dancing in the infinite, all a glint of possibility, a maybe in the future. We're on our way to their graves, not too far, to greet them and plant the flowers there.

To the right of us is a confession booth. Mama jeers with a laugh. "Oh, those things, I remember them. I used to have nothing to confess so I'd make stuff up" she shared, remembering her childhood.

Four generations blur and bellow in one place. The profundity isn't lost on me. I'm understanding fully why South African Immigration forced me to leave the country in two weeks. I had to come here.

In the merging of memories and warping of worlds, Mama's words about the confession booth sit with me. They feel symbolic somehow. Now, as I type a post from my Johannesburg home and September sweeps itself to an end, I remember that funny little confession box in the church.

It's been a few days since my Terrible Mother moment and I'm gleaning the lessons. I'm recognizing how light I feel now in comparison to then. How my Terrible Mother juice has run out, because I gave it away - confessing.

Confession took shame from my shoulders and let me let it go. I gave the story of what happened as an offering. I dished the dirt on myself and let my loved ones hold me in it. I asked the questions I wanted to run from and swallowed down the answers. And then I held her, so close.

The last few days she's grown. Her face has appeared more and she pouts and scrunches her cute nose whilst I sing a collection of German nursery rhymes, English folk songs and made up hums. She tells me she's happy, cooing and tweeting like a little bird.

I wonder what might have happened if I hadn't confessed my darkest moments. Might they be ruminating through me still? Manifesting something unkind? Making me into a terrible mother more?

It's scary to live in the possibilities of what might have happened and at times, even scarier to receive the reality that we're good... We're totally ok. And I'm doing great. We're doing great. It's scary to admit that. Cause, what might people think and say?