A Letter I Cannot Deliver to My Teenage Daughter

I was sitting in the waiting room.

In came a little toddler. Her face was round as a soft full moon. Eyes as innocent and bright as a newborn star. Short pudgy legs (why and how could they be so cute).

Her older brother was holding her hand, talking to her in a cooing voice. He was only a few years older. A young soul.

“Come, do you want to come this way? Come on.”

Not too gently he tugged, anxious to show her off. He was the Jedi and she was destined to be his dewy-eyed Padawan. She stumbled a little but followed, a hint of a curious smile on her face as her eyes roamed around. They set off, eager to explore their world while their mother was too occupied at the front desk to notice.

In they walked down the office corridor.

Then out walked a teenage girl.

You, whom I birthed with blood, sweat, and tears. You were downcast, eyes dimmed, like a million years old star. Too exhausted to burn.

We walked in silence, out of the therapy building. We drove in silence. This is how it is often now. Sometimes I took you to get a donut, and we ate in silence before I drove you back to your school.

There are so many words, yet, they would not, and could not be said. I want to say I am sorry, for the PTSD you’re going through, because of cancer that took root inside of me and ripped apart our once peaceful world.

I know you feel the world is unsafe. Two hard full years of sheltering from the pandemic because of my health conditions came with a price.

The confusion and pain of growing up entangled you. Why are there so many uncertainties, fear of rejection, painful awkwardness? Why is it so hard to build a trusting relationship between friends? Why does it feel so hard to be accepted? Or, will I ever feel OK in my body and with my body?

But you know it already. Those unsaid words. I have said them too many times, they sound cliches now. Mere platitudes. The harder I try to reach you, the farther it seems to push you away. So I stopped trying to say the right things. I let the silence grow. I stopped trying to save you from this pain.

I. am. a. mother. who. cannot. save. her. child.

And I have to be OK with that.

Even if every time I see your sorrow and the pain you are carrying, I feel a knife plunges into my heart, again and again.

But a silent safe place is what you need me to be now. So I will stay, as silent as a thousand years old tree. Cutting my heart open, hollowed it up so you could come into it to shelter. For you I will do that, cutting my heart open, again and again. I will carve it out for you, as long as you are willing to come in.

I know it is everything-everywhere-all at once now, for you. The pain, the confusion, the angst, they are constant and unrelenting and are all around you like particles in the air. You cannot escape from it, they invade every pores and thoughts of you.

If you must know, it is that way for me too. When you and your twin were born, I felt, a whole cosmo of emotions had exploded inside of me. In it is the depth of love I had not known before, great anxiety intertwines with marvel, unending fear, extraordinary joy. And now pain.

Through this combustion, a mother was birthed forth. Galaxy upon galaxy of swirling conflicted emotions. Some I can’t even name. Everything-everywhere-all at once. It knows no end. For you and your sisters, I am destined to burn like a sun, forever.

So if you are Elsa hiding in your room, in your own pain, sorrow and fear; I will be Ana forever waiting outside of your door. I will not sing Do you want to build a snowman, but I will sit in a posture of quietness and patience. For you to process and grow through this pain, however long it is going to take. And if the passing time turns me into a statue? It will be a statue of love, eternally cemented for you.

When you are ready to open your door, your father and I will be ready, oh so ready, to take you in our arms, and walk through life holding your hand again.

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This story is originally published on Medium.