A New Version of Her, A New Version of Me

My daughter has gone from little girl to full on kiddo, and I'm kind of excited about it.

“Motherhood is turning out to be the biggest teacher I’ve ever encountered”

— Hannah Brencher

This month, I met a new version of my daughter.

That might sound strange to say, because I’ve known her since she was created as an embryo, from the moment she started growing inside of me I’ve felt her every single day of her life, and I’ve loved her with a fierceness I didn’t know I was capable of. I’ve held her through sleepless nights, laughed with her in the sunshine, and obsessively worried over her every sniffle and fever.

But this version? The not-so-little girl that I’ve spent so much time with over the last few weeks being truly present, and truly fully engaged?

I’m in awe of her.

This version is someone new.

And meeting her feels like discovering an entirely new chapter in the story of our relationship. One I am so thrilled and grateful to be here for.

This month, I had the immense privilege of sharing all sorts of new experiences with her - real, memory-making, one-on-one moments. Things I missed out on for far too long, and things that were brand new to us both.

For example, we discovered a mutual love, admiration, and talent for building lego sets. For the structure and organization of sorting pieces, the satisfaction of finding the ones we were searching for, for following steps in precise order, for the feelings of independence growing as the small bricks snap together, and the feelings of confidence as we marveled at our completed creations - I did that, I taught her to do that, we did that, we shared in that together. It was honestly kind of magical, and I keep recreating the opportunity over and over again because it clearly brings so very much to both of us.

I didn’t realize how much space there could be in my heart for these kinds of moments and memories until I felt it swell with each new one. There was too much time taken away from us both, from our relationship, our connection, when life tried to steal me during the guise of night, over and over again, but here I am, back in my rightful place, standing on my own two feet (with a tiny army of incredible support behind me) and truly reconnecting with my daughter - who is no longer a toddler or a preschooler, but rather a brilliant, hilarious, empathetic, highly sensitive, highly feeling beautiful not-so-little girl - one who I am absolutely so damn proud of and even more grateful for.

I’ve been tucking these new memories away carefully - not just because they’re sweet and so special, but because they’re reminders. Reminders that I am not replaceable. That our connection is deep and layered and built on time and trust and history. That even in seasons when I’m struggling, I am hers, and she is mine.

Last night, after a full school day and a grueling nine-hour travel journey end to end, we finally checked into our hotel room. Bedtime was more than four hours late. She was exhausted. I was beyond done. And while there was one inevitable meltdown - just a single wave of overtired, overstimulated, “I’ve had enough” bedtime tears, she otherwise aced the entire day.

She was patient. She followed instructions. She listened. She was kind. She stayed close. She asked permission. She was able to emotionally regulate. To feel both trepidation and excitement at the same time - and to move through them together, while both resourcing and using her words.

That - that part came from me. That part we’ve been working on slowly, in tiny bite sized chunks, for a while now. I think in some ways I have been trying to teach her as I’ve been doing my own re-learning.

I want her to be able to feel her feelings in real time.

To never feel like she has to hide them, or think twice about what she’s going to say, or not say something because it might be an unpopular opinion or “rock the boat.”

I want her to be fierce. And independent. And brave. AND I want her to be soft. And supported. And honest. I want her to have everything she wants and everything she needs when it comes to emotional regulation, development and sustainability. I want her to have everything I didn’t, and then some.

Anyway, I say all that to say that in this season, in all of the moments we’ve shared, in traveling with her for the first time as a full out kiddo yesterday - in all of that, I saw my daughter in a different light.

Not just as my little girl. Not just as the baby I rocked and fed and fought to bring into this world.

I saw her as a kid. A growing human. Someone who is developing her own inner compass and rhythm, who can rise to the occasion, who can surprise me in the best way. Someone who is changing in front of my eyes.

It’s a strange but beautiful twinge of sadness to witness the slipping away of the “little” in “little girl.” But it’s also such a gift. She is becoming. And so far, I really like this version of her. Sometimes I catch myself snapping a hundred photos of the same moment to capture the expressions on her face, her body language, the moment in time that I can’t pause but I sure as shit can savor. Those photos are some of my most prized possessions in this season. I flip through them often as if to remind myself that they are real, that those moments happened, that I was present for them.

And if I’m being totally honest, I think this new version of me, the one who gets to see her for who she is now, not just who she was?

I think I’m going to like this version of me too.

Because, as my sweet friend Manda used to say, “motherhood is constantly rewriting itself.”

Just when you think you’ve figured out the chapter you’re in, the page turns.

And while I used to feel fear in those blank pages ahead, while I used to worry about not knowing how to entertain or connect with this new, older version of my daughter, or about the fading of our bond - one that started the moment my body began to sustain the growth and development of hers, or how it would feel if she stopped needing me in the ways she has up until this point, I’m learning to replace those fears with excitement instead.

This month reminded me that love adapts.

That presence matters.

That growth doesn’t have to mean loss. That growth can mean evolution.

And as much as I ache for the moments that have passed, and will always feel heartbreak over not having the chance to experience them again, I’m starting to fall in love with the possibilities of the moments that are still to come.