I bought the book She … after I saw it gifted at a baby shower.

I waited a day to open the binding and weep through the pages. I find myself resisting the strengths in my daughter, asking her constantly to dile down her intuition to fit inside of the box I’d like for her.

9 months of me for all you and six years later … I’d like to cling to the fact that at one time, she fit inside of me.

So why don’t we fit?

This book is a descriptive quote with a responding celebration. On every single page.

She added so much to being human.

Celebrate her presence.

Goose bumps for me. Because reading these words is like believing in the allowance to be celebrated. And I want that for her. I want that for me, but boy do I want that for her.

Celebrate her presence. She is here, right here.

She colored her thoughts with only the brightest hues.

Celebrate her optimism.

Many of these echoing phrases could be changed into “Show her your optimism” from a mothers perspective. From my own perspective. The day in and day out of mothering a hard-wired emotionally dramatic human being makes the little things feel like the big things.

Being worn in every day into the skin of a mom who stretches not only literally for life but figuratively for the rest of her life is tiresome and lonely and most often forgotten. Hardly celebrated. Hardly ever thought of as beautiful.

Show her your optimism. Show her your scars. Show her MYself.

She discovered that she was the one she’d been waiting for.

Celebrate her self-reliance.

This is something I read to myself often, only without the corresponding celebration. Just that I have everything I need. I am already who I’m waiting for. It’s an exercise in self esteem, yes, but it’s also permission to be that version of me. The one I hide and protect so carefully. The reflection in the mirror that cannot lie.

How empowering as a child to be told that the voice inside isn’t the one you need to drown out. You aren’t always wrong, always less, always small. You already are whoever you’re going to be. Today it’s tea-parties; tomorrow world peace. And I believe it’s in you.

You’re captivating and refreshing. You’re a giggle for a gaggle and you’re here. I haven’t celebrated that lately. That you are You. That you’re a wild antidote to a humble situation.

I was terrified of having a daughter, because I thought I would be having me. Worse than that I was terrified I would end up raising my sister. Let’s be honest here, skeletons or not and family history or not … if there’s one thing I will not repeat: it’s my childhood.

Yet the path laid before me and the voices echoing in my own mind are those of the dominating parental control of my youth. RIGHT! WRONG! BLACK! WHITE! NEVER GOOD ENOUGH, DO IT AGAIN! FASTER! CLEANER! WORK HARDER! SINNER!

The voice that saved me simply said “I love you right now, right here. If nothing ever changes in you or if everything changes about you – this one thing will not. I. Love. You.”

She discovered her real measurements had nothing to do with numbers or statistics.

Celebrate her self-esteem.

Fierce. Girl power necklace made by my daughter for me :) I'll take it.

Fight for it. For her. Fight for youme.

She remained true to herself.

Celebrate her authenticity.

I love this book because it speaks to such a depth inside of me that for so long was embarrassed about the sassy, sensual S which begins S H E. Not to roar up any movements or claim to be part of one, but I find it so interesting that removing that permission – the very letter – and all we have left is H E.

When did it become ok to ignore the passion of a woman? To ignore the power of her spirit? To squash, squander and belittle the body that feeds the world. When did I start allowing someone else to assign me my worth?

And why am I trying to assign my daughters?

She doesn’t need my permission … and she will always have my blessing.



I love you.

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One thought on “Daughters

  1. Reading through the pages of that book makes me teary eyed…and I haven’t even met my daughter yet šŸ™‚

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