By Kiley Hillner 
Spirited. Strong-willed. Lively. Energetic. Marches to the beat of her own drum.
All words and phrases that have been used to describe my girl.
My girl who runs and jumps with a ferocity and determination that swallows fear and ignores caution.
My girl who wails in despair and disappointment then turns and rejoices with elation and exuberance.
My girl who picks out her clothes with a vision in her mind and a twirl in her step.
My girl who loves big and deep and wide, spreading it like fire to all who cross her path.
My girl who pushes the limits and tests the boundaries just to see what it feels like.
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My girl who crashes down on life like the sea crashes down on the sand.
My girl who dances to the song of the wind like a dandelion seed, forcing her presence to be known in every piece of the world her feet touch down upon.
My girl, the wild child.
My first-born who teaches me patience and humility daily.
Who showed me early on that motherhood is not an equation of love + teach + discipline = perfectly behaved child.
The mini, 4-yr-old lady who gives the sass just as quick and witty as an old pro.
This child of mine who shakes her booty with vigor and demands Alexa to play “Jump Around” just one more time.
One of the main reasons I collapse into bed at the end of the day exhausted.
And yet.
When I collapse into that bed, weary and tired, there is a smile on my face and joy in my heart.
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So much joy it overflows my heart and fills my soul.
It is life-giving joy that comes from a little girl so full of life and passion for life that it appears a bit . . . wild.
And isn’t that something? Something . . . beautiful?
Beautifully wild and wildly beautiful.
Horses that are shiny and groomed, can patiently let a human ride upon their back, and who turn at the slight twitch of the hand are impressive and majestic, there’s no doubt.
But oh, have you ever seen a herd of wild horses? The power and fierceness in their wiry muscles flexing with each pound of their unshod hooves. The raw confidence in their untamed eyes, challenging the world to break them with the bridle. Their tangled manes flowing as they race against the vast backdrop of the world. They are beautifully wild.
That’s my girl. That’s my beautifully wild child.’
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And sure, the flowers sitting on the counter in their vases are lovely and fragrant. Their colors and shapes perfectly arranged to be just so, making the mouth smile in appreciative admiration. Those flowers with their perfect petals and stems cut at an angle are a sweet treat to have in your home, there’s no doubt.
But oh, have you ever had your breath stolen by a field of wildflowers that suddenly appears over the crest of the trail you’ve been hiking? The surprise of a thousand tiny, mismatched blasts of colors blazing their way and demanding their existence amidst the green and brown of the rocks and trees you’ve grown accustomed to seeing, will dance upon your eyes and force your legs to stop moving. Their unique patternless scatter is wildly beautiful.
That’s my girl. That’s my wildly beautiful child.
When I think of my girl with her unruly curls and fierceness in her eyes, I see the beautiful, natural strength and leadership that comes from being a bit wild. When I see her testing the boundaries with a hint of a smirk, I see the beautiful independence that comes from being a bit wild. When I see her loving her people so fully and so freely, I see the beautiful passion and easy ability to love that comes from being a bit wild. When I see her squatting in the dirt, and hear her asking question after question about this world she is so fully taking part in, I see the absolute present-ness that comes from being a bit wild.
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When I look at my girl and see all the beauty that comes from the bit of wildness she’s been gifted, I can’t help but wish I was a little bit wild, too.
What an honor to have been given the job of mom to my girl.
To guide her and show her how to not tame, but hone, the special gifts given to wild ones such as her.
She who is my beautifully wild and wildly beautiful little girl.
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