There were times when I ached for her as I sat in my rocking chair full-bellied, for the trials that I know will meet her in this life. As a mother, deep down, I continue to ache.
I ache for the times when heaviness meets her in the morning; when her heart feels like it has torn and will never heal, when for a moment, disappointment will overshadow the dream, and when it'll take everything in her to get back up again.
I ache for the friendships that will take their plight, and for the struggle that is had while uncovering true friendship. I ache for the times she'll feel misunderstood by me, or her father, friends or others, and for the ones her heart breaks, because their happiness, she carries in her heart.
I ache for times when the page turns, the chapter closes, and when the book slams shut, because I know, she'll feel lost in her own story.
I ache for the people who will come into her life and the ones that will go, and for the times it'll take everything in her to severe her ties and walk away, because she knows it is the right decision.
I ache for the process she'll have learning self-respect and self-love, because often, it's hindsight that teaches the hardest and greatest lessons.
But with the ache comes happiness, I know this through and through.
If it weren't for that deep dive, I'd be sitting on the bank, kicking up water with my toes, never fully drenched in the fullness of the sea. I'd never know ache, and I'd never know happiness. I'd never know fear, and never know peace. I'd never know the feeling of being alone or the feeling of love. I'd never know the questions...or have faith. It would be a life without feeling, and that's not the sort of life I've agreed to live.
So I tell you, Brooklynn, embrace the ache when it finds you, and during the times it feels it wont subside and when it wakes you at 2am heavy-hearted and sad. Turn on your lamp on your bedside table and take that journal into your hands and pour down onto that page; let the words write themselves and know that you are okay. Pray. Read The Word. Read Rilke.
The ache will always be okay.
Photo of Brooklynn lying on the lawn, Summer 2011