Sailing Bravely

When I was five, I loved ponies and kittens and wore fluffy dresses and wanted to be a ballerina. I played babies and barbies and rode my bicycle in circles in the driveway. That’s when I was five.

When I was ten, I found first friendships and believed in magic and still wanted to be a ballerina and I rode my bicycle in the driveway, in bigger circles. That’s when I was ten.

When I was fifteen, I sunk into insecurities and sampled small tastes of freedom and I joined clubs and teams and built new friendships and met boyfriends and thought I knew everything. That’s when I was fifteen.

And life continues on, to twenty and twenty five and thirty. And when I turned thirty, I knew myself better than I ever had. I had a career and a husband and a house. I still loved all the things I loved before, but I discovered so much more, and most importantly, I really started to love myself.

And then life changed. I changed. I became somebody’s mother.

My identity I built for the past three decades felt like it disappeared into this vast and new universe, realizing that I was just a small speck in the greatness, a blip in the bigness. I was no longer me, I was a mother.

I struggled saying no to girls nights and date nights and weeknight yoga classes and I mourned the freedom that was once my own. I stood unsteadily in the new space, alone and overwhelmed, even though I was surrounded by people and love, wondering what would five year old me and ten year old me and fifteen year old me think of thirty year old me, who worked so hard for the life I had, who lived all of their experiences which felt so far away and accomplishments felt forgotten.

And as I waved goodbye to forty year old me, I reflected on the past and the present and the future and I am so proud of the woman my kids get to know and call mom.

I’ve lived through some tough stuff, enough to help guide them through their own. And when mom leaves for work trips with a pre-dawn forehead kiss, my kids think I’m out there changing the world, serving others, using powers for good, and I am. That’s the kind of stuff I hope they do too.

I guess that’s why these words found this page. Because it’s important to honor everything that made you become you, appreciating the growth that comes along with the shifting of our own tectonic plates, subtle earthquakes in our being.

And now I look at our five year old son and ten year old daughter and I can’t help but grasp onto the memories of who they used to be, who they are now while dreaming of their futures.

At five, he loves building forts and motorcycles and animals. He loves big hugs where his body collapses into mine. He loves morning snuggles and wearing his blue rubber boots. At five, he loves his bicycle and he rides big circles in the driveway. That’s him being five.

At ten, she’s finding friendships and learning to trust herself and testing boundaries and reading chapter books and exploring art and finding her own taste in music and she loves every animal she ever met and she wants to be a teacher. She’s gracefully navigating the inevitable playground drama and deciding what kind of friend she wants to be. That’s her being ten.

Just a snapshot in time, a glimpse into the stages that make us who we are. I’m grateful for all of the stages and if I blink, the next stage will be the horizon we’re sailing toward bravely, captains of our own ships. Our bicycle driveway circles will undoubtedly become bigger and bigger circles, until we’re exploring more than we ever imagined.