It Ends With Us.

I lay here next to my daughter, her tiny body finally still, her breath soft and steady against my arm. The room is finally quiet after forty-five solid minutes of her pouring her entire little heart out, openly crying, processing what she feels was the worst day of her life so far, at 9 years old. Thought after thought, feeling after feeling, no filter, no fear, just raw honesty. And the wildest part is that never once did it occur to me to tell her to stop. Not once did I feel the urge to tell her to suck it up, never did I say “that’s enough” or “you’re being dramatic” or “there are kids who have it worse.” I just listened, and I offered advice when she asked, nothing but presence when she didn’t. Because I know what it feels like to have your feelings dismissed before they even finish forming. I know the feeling of being an inconvenience. I know what it’s like to be a child and already be taught that pain has a hierarchy, that your hurt doesn’t count unless someone else signs off on it.

When I was little, I learned fast that I needed to be grateful, even when things were hard. Your dad’s in prison? At least he’s alive. At least you can visit him. You have food? Clothes? A roof? Be thankful. Other kids have it worse. I was handed gratitude like a bandage for a bullet wound, like I should feel lucky my suffering wasn’t worse instead of being allowed to feel what it was. I internalized it, the idea that there was always someone more deserving of pain than me. So I started swallowing my own. It became second nature. My needs felt excessive. My sadness felt selfish. And eventually, I stopped even trying to explain myself because what was the point if the world already decided it wasn’t that bad? That message - to be grateful instead of hurting - became my internal compass. I learned how to swallow big feelings and silence myself so well, I could barely recognize my own needs. I became grateful for crumbs, because I was taught that someone, somewhere, had even less. And that somehow made less enough.

But now I’m the one holding the pen. I’m the one shaping the narrative. And I want more for my kids. So much more. Not more stuff. Not more things to fill the house or their hands. More space. More freedom. More safety to be exactly who they are. I want them to know that their pain never has to be compared to anyone else’s to be real. That it doesn’t have to be justified or packaged nicely to be valid. That they can sit in front of me, or lay beside me, and fall completely apart, and I will not judge. I will not shame. I will not scold. I want them to know that their feelings don’t need a permission slip. That they don’t have to smile when they’re sad. That it’s okay to say the hard, messy things, even the ones they think might disappoint me. Especially those. They are allowed to feel, and not just the palatable things. They are safe in every sense of the word. Emotionally. Physically. Spiritually. And when they need to, they can dump it all out here with me and walk away a little lighter, knowing I will carry the hard stuff for them.

I didn’t grow up with that. I didn’t grow up feeling that I was safe to speak freely. I wasn’t allowed to question, to cry too loudly, to be too sensitive, or to need too much. I was told to toughen up. I was told to suck it up. I was told that other people had it worse, and that gratitude was the cure for whatever I was feeling. But what I needed, what every child needs, was someone to say, “It’s okay to feel this way. You don’t have to carry it alone.”

I try to remind myself often that Mom and Pawpaw were human, too. That it was their first time on Earth, trying to figure it out. And maybe they didn’t have the tools or the space or the permission to do it any differently. I hold that truth in one hand… and in the other, I hold the ache of everything I needed but didn’t get. And once she falls asleep and the rest of the world is silent, I let both be true.

But the cycle ends here. The silence ends here. The minimizing, the gaslighting, the guilt for having emotional needs… it ends right here, in this bed, with my daughter’s tears soaking my shirt and her voice still echoing in the air. Because this is what healing looks like. It looks like a little girl telling the whole truth and a mother who listens without fear. It looks like generations of silence being replaced with softness. It looks like a safe place to land.

And maybe the most beautiful part is that every time I give that safety to her, some wounded part of me gets a little of it too.

I don’t want everything for my kids. Just more. More freedom to feel. More grace to grow. More room to be. More safety to be human in all its messy, beautiful fullness.

God, I hope she always knows that right here, with me, will always be her safe place.

Author’s Note:
Originally written: June 21, 2018 - Breaking the rules I was raised by, rewriting love in a language my child understands.

I wrote this piece when my daughter was still small, when her voice was still soft and high and her stories spilled out in long, unfiltered streams. I remember that night like it just happened. She had a rough day, she couldn’t find a doll she got from my Pawpaw and that triggered a sprial she wasn’t prepared for. I remember her head on my shoulder, tears streaming onto my shirt, her tiny body curled beside mine, the weight of her words filling the room, and the quiet vow I made to always be her safe place. I remember feeling such fierce pride that night, not because I had all the answers, but because she trusted me enough to bring everything to me. Her whole heart. Every ache, every question, every messy, beautiful emotion.

She’s almost sixteen now. She calls me from school, whispering about something that’s bothering her, trusting me to listen without jumping to fix or judge. She still climbs into my bed, sometimes late at night after a long day, and pours her heart out just like she did all those years ago. She still comes to me with the heavy stuff, the awkward stuff, the funny, weird, confusing, painfully messy stuff and she knows I’ll hold it all without judgment. She knows she’s safe with me. And even though I’ve made my share of mistakes along the way - even though I’ve had seasons where I wasn’t the best version of myself - this is something I will always be proud of. She knows I’m her home. She knows her feelings are safe with me. And that, to me, truly is everything.