Letter to my daughter after a breakup

My dear daughter,

As your third birthday approaches, I can’t believe there was ever a time you weren’t on this earth. But really you were always here, weren’t you? Even the year before your birth, when your dad and I held each other through the tears and heartache of our second miscarriage, you were all around us, waiting to enter when it was time, waiting until we learned more about patience, strength, and resilience. And then you came to us and suddenly the world felt unworthy of your innocence.

Did you know that I hated taking you out of the house when you were a baby? I was so overcome by this new, radiant, life-affirming and all-encompassing love that I could barely move. The idea of taking you anywhere unpredictable was crippling. Thank goodness for your dad and his gentle logic that eventually convinced me to breathe. And now at only three-years-old you can’t get enough of the sunshine, the playground, the world and all the people in it, and every day I let go just enough to let you grow through experience and scraped knees and belly laughs. But the tightening and loosening of my protective grasp is always a balance I have to find again and again as you get older, and sometimes I may not always get it right.

As you’ve gone from adorable baby to beautiful, spirited little girl, I’m realizing more that this growing up thing is inevitable, and one day too soon you’ll be a young woman. Right now, you adore and trust everyone you meet, which is sweet and, as you’ll learn, brave. But if you can maintain the courage to love unabashedly as you age, you will also get your heart broken. But that can be beautiful, too, if we let it. The anguish that comes from romantic breakups, the painful what-ifs that come from the ones who get away, and the regret of the ones who never knew how you felt can leave you aching and full of sorrow, but you must promise me that you’ll never extinguish the vulnerability that got you there. Vulnerability is not weakness, it is, in fact, the opposite. Only those willing to love at all costs will be rewarded, and trust me, the pain of heartbreak is so much better than feeling nothing at all. But with your starry eyes will come a responsibility, too. While I want you to pursue love fearlessly and brilliantly, you must never lose yourself in the process. If you remember nothing else, remember this: you are good enough, and you will always deserve to take up space.

When I was a teenager, I lost myself in a boy and didn’t find my way back for years. I wanted romantic love so badly that I believed him when he said I didn’t matter. By the time he started hurting me, it was too late, I was too disillusioned with fear to leave and I didn’t know who I was anymore if he wasn’t there to tell me. Luckily, I was able to get out and found my way to support groups and professional help. Eventually I learned to love again but I did so this time without giving up myself in the process.

When I met your dad, I was immediately stricken by how good it felt to be loved for exactly who I am, flaws and beauty alike. We shared a mutual respect for each other from the beginning and that has never wavered. Even when we disagree or get frustrated or even sad, it’s met with gentle, steady hands and calm, kind energy. I know now that I deserve to feel safe, appreciated, and loved beyond the whole damn universe. And you, my sweet daughter, you deserve everything. If anyone ever tells you otherwise, I’ll always be here to remind you of what is true. And if, despite your best efforts, you get swept up in dreamy teenage love and can’t find your footing, I’ll be here then, too, to make sure you always come back to yourself.

Until then, let your starry eyes shine on, my love. I can’t promise it will always be easy, but I can promise that you’ll never be alone.

Loving you always,

Your mom

Last weekend was Mother’s Day, which can be complicated. Not everyone has a mother still living. Not everyone has a good relationship with their mother. Not every woman has children and sometimes that’s a hard choice - or wasn’t their choice. And then there’s the zillion permutations of blended families, where divorce reshuffles the family deck, and in doing so, profoundly affects motherhood and childhood.

When I got married 13 years ago, I had no children of my own, but my husband had a smart, kind young daughter from his first marriage. She and I developed a bond that seemed unique—not mother/daughter, or aunt/niece—and pretty amazing.

It can be tough being a step-mom, the roles and rules aren’t always clear. Who tucks them in at night or goes to parent-teacher conferences? Every blended family has to sort out this dynamic for themselves. In our family, when my step-daughter had a skinned knee, she would run to her dad for comfort, not me, and sometimes it hurt to feel like I was on the sidelines. (But then again, I got out of those 3 AM puke cleanups, so there’s always a silver lining.)

All that being said, it’s even harder being a step child. Divorce brings big life changes which directly affect children: they may have to move, change schools, go between two homes, accommodate other adults or siblings in their life, explain to their friends what’s happening. It can be a stressful time for them.

But if you’re a parent facing a divorce, there’s good news. Child psychologist Paul Foxman explained to me when I developed my course Fresh Start, that a child’s health after divorce is predicted not by “the acute stress of conflict at the time of separation, but rather by the ongoing co-parent relationship after the divorce.” The children will be so much more resilient if the parents can put their child at the center - rather than in the middle - of their divorce.

My step-daughter grew up, graduated college, and moved out on her own. By the time her father and I divorced, she was a young woman with a life, job, relationship. We’ve had meaningful conversations about how she’s the child of two divorces. I don’t burden her with my venting (that’s what my friends are for!) and although I don’t always get it right, I try to speak maturely and compassionately about her father.

I know Mother’s Day was a week ago, and I’m not even technically her step-mother anymore, I’d like to say to her: we get to write the rules of our own relationship, and no matter what happens, I love you and you’ll always be my step-daughter.

Sarah 🖖

Image: The Sick Child, c. 1664 - c. 1666, Gabriël Metsu, Rijksmuseum.

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