Becoming Her Mother

The day I found out I had a girl, the world shifted. Suddenly every scar I carried felt like a map I didn’t want her to follow. Every lesson I learned the hard way became a prayer— whispered for her to never have to repeat. Having a girl means holding the mirror twice: once to see yourself, and once to imagine who she’ll become. It means relearning softness, teaching strength, and realizing she’s watching you closer than she’s listening to what you say. I look at her tiny hands and think about all they’ll have to hold— dreams, heartbreak, choices, a thousand tiny versions of herself. And I want to teach her that she doesn’t have to shrink to be loved, that her “no” is a full sentence, that her worth will never be measured by who stays or who leaves. Having a girl is terrifying and holy. It makes me want to guard the world with my bare hands— and also set it on fire so she can walk through without burning. Maybe my job isn’t to protect her from everything. Maybe my job is to stand beside her, to hand her the tools I never had, to remind her that she already carries everything she needs inside of her. And one day, when she’s grown, I hope she looks back at me and sees not a perfect parent, but a flawed human who tried her best to show a little girl how to grow into herself— without apology.