I used to hear people say that having a child is like letting your heart walk around outside your body. I never quite understood it—until the day mine took her first unsteady steps away from me.
Now I watch her move through the world with this mix of awe and ache. She laughs with her whole face, trusts without hesitation, and believes life will always be kind. It’s beautiful. It’s terrifying. It’s everything.
There are moments when she turns back to look for me, and in that half-second I feel needed again, anchored. But then she finds her courage, or her friends, or her own new idea—and she’s off. And I know that’s exactly what she’s supposed to do.
Loving her means letting go in tiny pieces, over and over. It means cheering from the sidelines when every instinct wants to pull her close. It means watching my heart beat outside my body and hoping the world treats it gently.
It’s the hardest, most beautiful thing I’ve ever done.