My child is a storyteller who never stops talking, thinking, asking.
She is sassy, loving, compassionate and forgiving. Her enthusiasm, wild-card energy and witty banter are matched only by her mother.
She’s my spitting image and when she speaks it’s quite clear that she’s mine.
With the good comes the bad and I worry.
I worry when things pan out poorly, when they don’t go as planned that she’ll feel that same angst that I’ve felt.
I worry she’ll follow in my clumsy footsteps instead of taking a more direct path to her truth and purpose.
I worry she’ll face the challenges of the world and greet them with anxiety and loneliness, traits that will likely never leave me.
I worry people won’t see the youthful spirit burning bright within her when she’s managing a small army of toddlers instead of playing with them.
I know her tender heart will lead it to get broken like mine has many times before.
I worry if I am teaching her to love and grow with boundaries, a concept still largely new to me.
But, deep down I know that she will be fine because she’s not me. She’s so much more herself then I could ever teach her to be.
Our children teach us who we are and clear the slate for what comes next. They teach us about who we’re supposed to become.
The more I get to know my daughter, the best version of myself I find.