A letter to my daughter.

Eleanore. I’ve been watching you lately, and I’m so excited. And scared. You’re writing your book – you know, the one that sorta emulates Dear Girl. I love listening to you read it back to me, again and again and again. And again. And then you write another sentence or two, and then you read it back to me again. I just adore it. I adore how heartfelt and genuine your voice sounds when you read it – the inflection you use – as if you’re writing and speaking to a four-year-old version of yourself. So compassionate, so kind, so mothering. I love how you insist the girl be fair, and cry when she needs to, and to just “be YOU, girl”. Be you. Be you.

I love the way you be you. For the past couple days I’ve been talking to myself about this, and I felt like I gotta get it out before I forget my train of thought. Before the world gets ahold of you and makes you regular, or medium, or normal. Average. Fuck. Do me a favor, Biggie, and promise me you’ll never let them make you average. No matter what. As you keep going through the years, you’re gonna cross paths with so many people who will try to stunt your growth. They’ll tell you their thoughts in a manner that sounds like facts, but it is not. It’s mostly just opinions. And most people won’t even realize what they’re doing. But I will. I’ll know. And I’m gonna try to show you, make you see – all people and their thoughts are like Thanksgiving dinner – you take what you want and you leave the rest.

And this is the part where I get scared. Am I gonna be brave enough? Strong enough? Am I going to be brave enough to show you what I see, when I know they’re things you’re not gonna wanna see? And am I gonna be strong enough to then step back and allow you to see it for yourself, or not see it at all? Will I have the courage to give you the space to just do you, and figure it out for yourself, no matter what possible trainwrecks I see lying ahead? At the same time, will I have the courage to speak my guidance that I learned through my own experiences, knowledge, and perspective – even when you don’t ask for it? Because I have a voice. We all know I have a voice. And sometimes I get afraid of not knowing how to use it with you. Afraid of making things worse when all I wanna do is make them better.

And right when I’ve begun to stumble in writing this, and I announce that I’ve hit a wall and I’m calling it for the night, you, always with your magical timing, tell me to look on my office door:


I made you something, Mommy. See the pattern?

Blue courages you to be brave.

Pink courages you to try new things.

Purple courages you to be a good citizen.

And then it repeats itself.


I find you fascinating. Truly extraordinary.

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