By You don’t know this, but I was scared to have you. The world went up in flames, and I didn’t want it for you, not this world. This world that had become a raging monster, reaching out its claws and sparing no lives — it was no place to raise a child.
I found out about you on a Tuesday. The doctor’s smile was brighter than my own. I remember her reaching out to hug me tightly, the announcement she gave me with so much excitement echoing in my mind. You’re pregnant. You’re pregnant. You’re pregnant. I want you to know that after hearing these words, words I had waited a long time to hear, I was numb before I was happy.
I wanted you. Of course I wanted you. I spent so many nights dreaming of you, of the day I would get to hold you to my chest and look into your eyes.
But as much as I longed for you, I had so many doubts and fears. My first instinct as a mother was to protect you, to keep you cocooned in your safe environment forever, innocent and blissfully unaware. That protective instinct only intensified once I knew you were a girl. I was, at once, ecstatic and so incredibly sad.
I want you to know that after hearing these words, words I had waited a long time to hear, I was numb before I was happy.
My heart raced when I thought of the ugliness you would have to face once you came out into the world, and I felt all the responsibilities of a parent bearing down on me. You were my world long before I got to hold you and — like Atlas — I found myself struggling beneath the weight of a burden I was not prepared to carry.
My mother didn’t understand how I could love you unconditionally and yet be afraid of all the difficulties that came with you. I tried to explain, to tell her that, while I was prepared to make the world as safe as possible for you, it was naïve to think that you wouldn’t eventually be exposed to reality.
I told my mother that I understood it, now, her strong desire to shield us as children from the outside world, to keep us in her grasp so that the monster couldn’t catch us in its claws. But there were so many monsters now, waiting in corners to reach for innocent bystanders, and I knew in my heart I couldn’t possibly keep you away from all of them. I was afraid of losing you to the monsters, but I was also terrified of disappointing you.
I was afraid that you would grow up to resent my efforts to keep you safe. I was afraid that you wouldn’t understand. Before I even saw you, I was afraid that I wouldn’t be enough.
At first, you were only an idea, a hope. A dream. You grew into a tangible thing, and then you were a human being with a soul, a person. A tiny, fragile, brand-new person, but still a person. You were a life, and in the space of a second, you changed mine. It wasn’t that I was pessimistic, or had no faith in the future — but I was weary, and distrustful of the world I lived in.
But there were so many monsters now, waiting in corners to reach for innocent bystanders, and I knew in my heart I couldn’t possibly keep you away from all of them.
You were pure and beautiful, and I didn’t want the atrocities and evil in this world to taint you, to take your beauty from you. Is that so wrong, that I feared for your purity? I hope you understand, because no one else has.
God knows how many times I assured my loved ones that yes, I wanted motherhood, I wanted the joy of learning to re-discover the world through my children’s eyes. I wanted you. I wanted you from the start. That was never the problem.
I watch the news and scroll through articles and my heart sinks, because it seems there is no good news anymore. There is only death and ugly truths, and they are everywhere. Unfiltered. Unhidden. I never want you to know these things, but you will. One day.
Now you’re just beginning to understand the space around you, and you are content. You grasp at air and smile gummy smiles and babble happily to whoever will listen. Right now, your beautiful eyes are still learning to see, and they have yet to catch the world doing its dirty deeds. Right now, the world to you doesn’t extend much further than Mama’s lap, and I am so okay with that.
I know that the day you grow up will come sooner than I need it to, and that’s also okay. The world isn’t all that beautiful, but I will teach you to navigate it as best as I can, and I hope that it will be enough.
Baby girl, I love you. It’s true that I wasn’t ready, at first. I wasn’t ready for the responsibility, or the long nights. I was scared that I would do everything wrong, that I would mess everything up before you got the chance to grow up and form your own opinions.
Right now, the world to you doesn’t extend much further than Mama’s lap, and I am so okay with that. I know that the day you grow up will come sooner than I need it to, and that’s also okay.
But now that I have you, now that I get to wake up to you every morning, I know that motherhood is not something you can prepare for.
I know that I’m going to make mistakes, and that doesn’t scare me as much as it used to, because we’re going to learn together, you and I. We’re going to learn, and we’re going to have fun, and I’m going to love all the moments equally.
I’m telling you this because I want you to know that I’m sorry. I’m sorry for the mistakes I know I’ll make, and I’m sorry if I don’t do right by you. I’m sorry for thinking you were a burden before I gave you a chance. But mostly, I’m sorry that I brought you into this scary world. There’s no preparing for that, either.
You couldn’t have known, that day, that you were coming out into a world of hatred and betrayal, a world full of bigots and small-minded human beings who dare to stand on pedestals and call themselves leaders. I’m sorry you had to see what you saw. I’m sorry if this world ever does you wrong.
There are so many things I can apologize for, but I will never be sorry for having you. As ugly as the world can get sometimes, know that you are mine, and that is all the beauty I could ever ask for in this life. My dear future daughter, thank you for making me less afraid.