Before She is Born

I want to be a mother one day, but I’m scared. Scared the same story will repeat itself in a smaller body, with softer hands, with eyes that look like mine. I don’t want my daughter to question her reflection the way I learned to question mine. I don’t want her to pull at her curls like they’re something to fix, or wish her tan skin was lighter, quieter, more acceptable. I don’t want her to shrink herself into something easier to love. Because I never understood how people say “I love you to death” and still plant the kind of words that live inside you like scars. So I made promises, the kind you don’t break. I will never tell her to eat less just to take up less space. I will never point at her body and call it a problem. I will never make her feel like her own home is somewhere she has to be careful in. My sweet girl will not be afraid to talk to me about blood, about boys, about the ordinary chaos of being alive. I won’t turn love into something she has to earn through silence. And if the world ever raises a hand to her, even if that hand shares her blood, I will not look away. Because my daughter will not learn to endure what I had to survive. All I want, is for her to be herself without rehearsing it first. Not a version. Not a performance. Just her. And maybe this sounds like a lot, but it’s not, it’s the bare minimum. Because I never want my girl to be sixteen and writing something like this.