By Helene Waters
Oh look, it’s stupid o’clock and sleep, yet again, evades me.
Who knows what for this time…
I do have a million thoughts racing through my brain. Which means I feel that I need to write.
And when I feel I need to write, a blog or a poem is usually born.
This one is personal and filled with equal parts pride and ache.
Because sometimes, you start by writing a little note to put in your daughter’s lunchbox…
And somewhere between “Have a good day” and “I love you”, you realise you’re trying to put twenty years of motherhood onto a piece of paper.
This is more than a lunchbox note.
My daughter is heading off to university in a few days.
She’s staying on campus.
To say she’s flying the coop is ridiculous.
There’s nothing sudden about this, and she’s not escaping or running away.
And to say I’m passing on the baton is also absolutely absurd, because she’s going on a completely different path.
She’s not taking over my race.
She’s starting her own.
And I’m confident that the torch I’ve given her is bright enough to light the path she’s chosen for herself.
She’s still my daughter.
She’s not disappearing.
But the version of motherhood I’ve known for twenty years is changing.
There won’t necessarily be the same morning routines.
The same little conversations.
The same ability to know whether she’s had a good day simply by looking at her face.
I won’t listen to the same song on repeat as she learns the lyrics and makes it hers, as she changes it for the band she’s in.
I won’t always know where she is.
What she’s doing.
Whether she’s eaten.
Whether she’s sleeping properly.
Whether she’s struggling.
And that’s the bastard part.
I spent years teaching my child to become independent…
And now the day has come for her to demonstrate that I’ve actually succeeded.
And it hurts.
Not because she’s doing something wrong.
Because she’s doing exactly what I hoped she would.
That’s the strange cruelty of raising a child.
You spend years teaching them how to stand on their own.
You encourage them to find their voice.
You teach them to make decisions.
You tell them they don’t have to follow the crowd.
You tell them that they can go anywhere.
And then one day…
They do.
And you’re standing there with a smile on your face, a lump in your throat, and a heart that hasn’t quite caught up with the fact that this was always the plan.
So, my precious girl, since I won’t get to sneak lunchbox notes into your lunchbox anymore,
and…
You’ve forbidden me from showing up unannounced…
Here’s a special note just for you, to read any time you need to…
I can’t walk this path with you anymore.
And perhaps that’s the hardest part of motherhood.
Not learning how to let go.
Learning that I was never meant to hold on forever.
Here are some things to keep your torch burning brightly:
- Question things.
- Think for yourself.
- Be kind without being a doormat.
- Know when to walk away.
- Know that being different isn’t the same as being wrong.
- Love fiercely. You already do, don’t ever stop!
- Apologise when you’re wrong.
- Don’t apologise for existing.
- Ask for help.
- Give help.
- Trust your instincts, but check your assumptions.
- And when life knocks you flat, get back up when you’re ready.
- You don’t have to get up immediately.
- You don’t have to pretend you’re okay when you’re not.
- Always remember that falling down isn’t the same as staying down.
There will be moments when I desperately want to reach in and fix something.
There will be times when I want to tell you what to do.
There will be days when I want to wrap you up in my arms and protect you from every shitty thing the world can throw at you.
But I can’t.
And I shouldn’t.
Because this is your life.
Your choices.
Your mistakes.
Your victories.
Your lessons.
Your story.
So go, my girl.
Take the light.
Make the path yours.
Walk it in your own way.
Change direction if you need to.
Stop when you need to rest.
Run when you feel like running.
Take the long way around if that’s where your heart leads you.
And if the torch ever feels dim, remember this:
You were never carrying my light.
You were always carrying your own.
I love you,
Forever and always,
Mama
❤️
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