Dear Daughter, You Are Strong and Brave and Capable

Middle school you is becoming self-conscious. That’s normal, we knew this would happen. Honestly, I am impressed it took this long; your self-confidence has always been impressive. What is surprising to me is that you internalized this new perspective as a sign that you are not a brave girl.

When I think of bravery, I don’t just think of knights in shining armour rushing off to find a dragon. Instead, I see you at 18 months at the top of a slide. You chew on your thumb nervously as you stand on top of that playground structure. You stare down at the impossible length of wavy blue plastic, and when you feel you are ready, you choose brave. You slide down, by yourself, without my hand. That is a brave girl.

I see you at age three, sparkling leotard and fluffy tutu, with your wispy curls hairsprayed into a bun. You are asking me yet again, “What is it like to dance on the stage?” You begrudgingly told me you would try it, just one time, and if you didn’t like it, we would NOT be doing this again. But you did try it. And you liked it. And we have watched you twirl on stage every year since.

I see you at age five, glittery pink backpack almost as big as you, holding a matching lunch box, water bottle, and your trusty stuffed cat. I see you staring wide-eyed up the steps of a loud yellow bus. You squeeze my hand one more time, then let go, and climb on. Not being sure how kindergarten or the bus will go, you still try it. That is a brave girl.

When you were seven and your little sister was five, you switched schools, and you were both nervous. You grabbed her hand and said “Come on, we can do this. I will help you find your class first.” And you did. That is brave and kind.

I see you at age 10, dressed all in black, sitting up straight in the first row with a clarinet in your hand. Your first band concert. It was optional; you did not have to get on that stage after learning this instrument for only three months. You were worried you would squeak. You were worried you would trip on the stage. You were worried about a hundred other things you didn’t articulate, but we could see in your face. And you walked in, sat down, and did your best. That is brave.

So as we approach this new chapter, I am not worried. I know in time you will see what I see every day: You are one of the bravest people I know. Not because you fought a fire-breathing dragon, but because you do the hard things. Maybe you do it when you feel ready. Maybe there is a stuffed cat in your bag or a lucky penny in your pocket, but you do it.

Even when you have a choice. To not go down the slide. To not walk on that stage. Each time you move forward, under your own power, your own will. There are a thousand small moments I can think of, where we locked eyes and I saw your panic. When I almost let my need to comfort you prevent you from growing, but I didn’t. Because I knew you didn’t need it. Because you are strong and brave. You are capable.

Growth rarely comes when you are comfortable, and right now you are not comfortable, so we know you are growing. You are strong enough to handle this new phase, and I am lucky enough to watch and support you as you do. You were created not just with sugar and spice, but with grit and grace.

I have watched you try new things and not love them, but at the end of those days, you still smiled and told us you were glad you tried. That you were proud of yourself. You try when it is hard, when it is scary, when you may not love it. That is my definition of brave. You, darling girl, are absolutely brave.