Dear Chanelle

Every year, around this time, I vow to myself: next year I am going to be more prepared. Next year, everything will be done early–the gifts, the cake, the meal, the words–all of it will be done long before the actual day.

And every year, the days slip by and the bold letters you have not so subtly written on my calendar: CHANELLE’S BIRTHDAY approach in the whirlwind of October. October 1st becomes October 24th and the Amazon boxes in the garage give away my lack of preparedness.

Once again I vow, next year I’ll do better. 

*******

I sit down to write these words, as I do every year, on October 23rd. The afternoon sun is high in the sky and the light is filtered through big, white clouds that are growing by the moment. The leaves on the trees outside are no longer soft as they were just a few weeks ago. They have grown crisp like the fall air and we are beginning to see hints of red and yellow and orange where only green use to be. Some of the leaves have already surrendered to the ground, marking the changing season.

Maybe it’s better this way. Maybe this is the way it should be. Writing these words in September or on the 1st or even last week wouldn’t feel the same. The changing leaves, the changing temperatures, the changing seasons. . . they will always be reminiscent of the change that came when you entered the world.

Every year when I sit down to write these words, I find myself looking backward to the day you were born. The way it all felt, the song that was playing, the words that were said, how my heart leapt when the doctor’s calm voice declared, you have a girl. Looking backward has always come very easy to me.

This year feels different, though. Maybe it’s the fact you are getting older. Maybe it’s having seen you walk through your first eleven years so beautifully. Maybe it’s because as you are growing, so am I and with that growth I’m learning that seeing the life you have ahead of you is even more marvelous that what is behind. As I sat down to write this today, my mind rushed to the future. I saw you in a college dorm room, late at night, agonizing over a paper that you waited to write until the evening of October 23rd–of course it’s due on the 24th. I saw you feeling frustrated and alone. Tired and weary.

You are wondering, will I get through this?

My mind kept rushing. I saw you the night before a big job interview. The job you’ve dreamed of and worked toward. I saw the way your nerves kept you awake at night, the way they sometimes do now. I saw you trying to see beyond the interview, but unable to see. I saw your nervous tears, the anxiety, the uncertainty, the fear.

You are wondering, will I get through this?

And then my mind flashed even further ahead. I saw you in a darkened room in the middle of the night. Your eyes half open, your heart as full as your arms that hold your tiny baby. I see you in a quiet room, sleep deprived, newborn haze. You creep over to the crib in the dark room and you gently lay your sweet child down only to have the piercing cries begin again. You pick up your baby and sit back down as tired tears drip down your own face.

You are wondering, will I get through this?

Maybe these exact scenarios will never happen. Your story will be written with it’s own unique twists and bends. It’s own peaks and valleys. Your story will unfold as you go and only God knows the details.

The thing is Chanelle, I know the words that I write today mean little to you now. Let’s face it, you hear them every day. But I wonder if later, in the late night hours when I am not steps away, when we didn’t speak just moments ago, when you can’t tap me awake in the darkness of night, when the voices in your life and in your head feel deafening, I wonder if in those moments you might need to be reminded of a few things.

That’s why I write today–I write for tomorrow and all the tomorrows to come. I write to remind you. You are strong. You are brave. You will get through this.

Chanelle, we have learned so much about you this year. You have grown and bloomed and fit into your skin in ways that are new to all of us.  This year we have seen some of the uncertainty fall away and have watched you embrace the unique threads with which you were knit. We have watched you settle into your quiet nature and your reserved ways. We have watched as you have grown to understand more about who you are and how you fit into the world.

And just as you are learning you, we are learning you, too. The way you work, the tick-tick-tock of your insides. After eleven years, we see glimpses of who you used to be while also seeing glimpses of who you are becoming. When you were two I didn’t want you to change. I thought, it couldn’t get better than two. I thought the same at 5. And 9, too. Change has never been my friend.

But here you are, eleven years old, and the inevitable happens–you change. It’s a silly thought, really–wishing you wouldn’t change. Changing is exactly what you’re supposed to do. It’s the only way to become. The rough edges are smoothed and maybe a few new ones are formed. You trade digging for worms for a pair of soccer cleats. You no longer need me to read to you, (though you still let me) but now you read to your sister.

As parents, it’s easy to assume that we shape you from that very moment when you were placed in our arms. Time is teaching us, though, Chanelle. Your dad and I only get to walk beside you, hopefully teach you a few things, most mostly we get to let you grow, we get to let you become.

And as you grow and change and continue to become I want you to know that it is okay to be exactly who you are. Chanelle, you have learned that we live in a loud world. I watch as you stand back and observe it all. I see the way you quietly take it all in, you twist and turn it and see it more deeply than your words ever let on. It can be scary at times-the loud, crowded world. A world that will often tell you that loud is better, shouting is necessary, and worth is found in achievement.

In those moments, when the shouting is deafening, I want to remind you–quiet is okay, observing is acceptable, and who you are is enough.

You are strong. You are brave. You will get through this.

We talk about it a lot around here–how it’s okay to be different. That it’s okay if you don’t look like everyone else. We talk about how weird we all are–you, your brother, and your sister. Weird. It was inevitable–apples, trees–there was no escaping it.

The thing is, out there in the world, to be different can feel lonely. Following the beat that drums so loudly from within can be isolating. Making a path, quietly, on your own can be scary. None of us get through life unscathed. There will be hard times. Life will not alway feel easy. Chanelle, that’s where we come in–your dad and I–we will alway be here to remind you. . .

You are strong. You are brave. You will get through this.

As we flip the page of your life from ten to eleven, I feel less sadness than I’ve felt in previous years. My goodness, Chanelle, the pleasure and privilege and joy it is to watch you grow and change–it’s like nothing I could have imagined when you were two or five or nine. We could not be more thrilled to watch you as you walk the road ahead of you–step by step, day by day, year by year.

And while there are more unknowns ahead than known, there are a few things of which I’m sure. . .

You are strong.
You are brave.
You can get through anything.
I am so proud of you.

Love,

Mom