what YOU ARE is beautiful

Today on the way to school, you said to me, "Do you know that I don't like school?" Yes, dear, I know. Because you tell me almost every day. 


And my heart weeps.

You used to like school. Heck, you used to love school. And you still run off the bus smiling on most days so I'm not yet worried that your spirit is being completely crushed. But still you regularly tell me that you don't like school. Because on some days (though not every day), you believe that no one likes you. Your teacher, your peers, your BFFs. You tell me, "No one understands my heart; everyone blames me; they think I'm a dull person."

And my heart weeps.

We make a 2012 goal list, you and me. I write down 3, and you write down 3. One of yours is "make more friends."

And my heart weeps some more as it cries out, "Dear God/dess, please don't let her be lonely!"

"I'm just an oddball," you say.

And while my heart still weeps, I hear myself say, "Well, I'm an oddball, too. And that's OK. Being an oddball is good. Being an oddball is great, even!"

You're not so sure about your oddball mother, but I want you to believe me. I want you to believe that being different is not bad. I want you to believe because it is true. I don't want you to be like everyone else. I want you to be you.

You are My bright, vivacious, fierce, grab-life-by-the-horns-and-don't-let-go-even-if-you-must-kick-and-scream Girl. You are My Girl who loves princesses and dress-up and batman and cars. My Girl who draws flowers and wants to wear make-up. My Girl who plays with transformers and builds with legos (the non-pink kind). My girl who tears down the road on her scooter and picks out tunes on the piano. My Girl who laughs uproariously and My Girl who rages uncontrollably. You are My Wild One. And you are Beautiful.

But already you hear the voices that tell you differently. You are only 7.

And so my heart weeps.

And I wonder if one of the voices you hear is mine. Do you hear me say, "Calm down, C. Don't climb on me, C. You don't have to say everything you think, C"? Do you hear my own insecurity, my own fear, my own cynicism, my own blindness? Have these voices served to quell your wildly beating heart?

I pray not. I pray to God/dess that the other words, the "You're beautiful, C. You're special, C. I'm so thankful you're my daughter, C" words are the ones you hear in your heart. I pray that you will hear words that give you strength. And confidence. And hope. That THOSE will be the louder voices in the end.

But it's a struggle to hear those words. It's a struggle for me; I'm sorry it's a struggle for you.

I will try every day to make my words count. And on most days I will fail. But I will try, and I will trust that other voices are added to mine. Other voices with loud, encouraging, building-up words. Other voices that are the Voice of Her.

I wish I could make it easier for you, My Angsty One. I wish I could make it better. I wish I could make them all love you, damnit! But most of all, I wish I could ensure that you love yourself.

In the words of Rain at the sacred life:

"Breathe deep, brave one, and let holiness drape all over you, for you are a sacred space, marked and remembered and loved before the foundations of the world. 

You are a beautiful, earth-pounding warrioress."

What you are is beautiful.