To The Girl Who Stayed

My honest & sincerest gratitude.

A year ago, I sat in a in a theater chair inside a high school auditorium watching my daughter twirl in pink tights and a glittery tutu. She had just turned five and it was her first dance recital.

But to be completely honest, I don’t remember much else from that night.

Just weeks earlier, I had lost my third baby.

I was deep in the undertow of postpartum depression, barely tethered to this world. Disassociated. Hollow. Heavy.

Somebody else got my daughter ready for that performance. Somebody else kept her calm and entertained her backstage. Somebody else consoled her when she came off stage crying because her bun former had slipped out mid-performance.

That Amanda, the one in the audience who couldn’t breathe, who couldn’t feel her own skin, who thought she was more burden than blessing… she was on her way out.

Quietly.

Permanently.

She didn’t plan to be here much longer.

And for a long time, I hated her for that.

I couldn’t forgive the way she checked out, the way she failed to show up, the way she believed - truly believed - that everyone she loved would be better off without her.

That version of me carried so much pain, so much grief, so much shame, and honestly to this day I’m still trying to punish her for it.

She was absent - in head and in heart - because being present was just too damn painful.

But last night, standing in the same auditorium at my daughter’s dress rehearsal for this year’s recital, I felt something different.

Gratitude.

Gratitude for the version of me who didn’t give up.

Gratitude for the girl who chose to stay.

That girl, the one who sat alone in the dark thinking about how to make it stop, she also chose to ask for help. She made phone calls with trembling hands. She showed up to appointments she didn’t want to go to. She said the hard things out loud. She faced a terrifying truth: that healing wasn’t going to be fast, or clean, or guaranteed… but it was still possible.

That girl did the terrifying, gut-wrenching work of saving her own life.

And because of her, tomorrow morning I will get up at 7 am, run out to grab coffee and breakfast sandwiches, and then launch into full out Dance Mom mode. I’ll put my sweet girls hair into a perfectly formed bun. I’ll swipe a little blush onto her cheeks and I’ll mix her favorite shades of eyeshadow across her tiny eyelids.

Then, we’ll drive to the high school, and instead of dropping her off in the cafeteria and finding a seat in the auditorium, I will gladly stay backstage with her and her friends. I bought them snacks and printed out coloring pages and I have extra tights and bobby-pins and well, anything anyone else might need tomorrow. I want to be the mom that my daughter can rely on. I want to be the mom that has other mom’s backs too.

And when it comes time for my sweet girl to perform, the other backstage moms and I will sneak into the theater from the side door in the dark to watch our daughters dance. In those minutes, I can promise I will cheer louder than anyone else in the audience. I will likely grin from ear to ear while tears leak from the corners of my eyes - feeling the whole spectrum of motherhood flood through my chest all at once because #feelings.

Because of my daughter, I get this.

Because of her, I have a second chance at becoming the mother I always wanted to be.

Because of her, I am here.

I couldn’t see this moment until I arrived in it.

I couldn’t picture a life on the other side of that storm.

But here I am.

A little steadier.

A little stronger (some days).

A lot softer.

So this is for the version of me I once resented.

For the girl who stayed, even when everything inside her begged her not to.

Today I can recognize that she was both terribly broken and unbelievably brave, completely shattered and yet still intensely fighting.

I didn’t know it yet, but in those desperate moments, I was already starting to build a bridge to the life we live now. It felt unattainable, unrealistic, and completely impossible during that season - but today in retrospect the outline is completely clear.

I’m no longer blind to her effort.

I’m no longer waving my hand dismissively in a motion that signifies that it’s no big deal or that it hardly matters (you can picture this, I know you can).

It is a big deal.

It’s a big fucking deal.

Every decision I made last year was in regard to how to stay. In light of how to make staying feel possible or tolerable or even simply available to me.

Every decision I made last year led me to today, to this weekend, to the Dance Mom I couldn’t be more grateful to show up as tomorrow.

Every moment I intentionally chose to sit in the discomfort, to name my pain, to speak of my compounding traumas - it was all for this current season.

It was for my daughter.

For my husband.

For our family.

For THIS version of Amanda.

All of this work I’ve done has meant learning that I’ll always carry the past with me, but that what happened or how I responded to it doesn’t have to always define me in strength or in character. It also doesn’t have to limit or confine me. In fact, it expands me - deep into realms of empathy and understanding and advocacy.

The things and the people and the babies that I’ve loved and lost and tried to grow from or at least grow around, they’ll forever echo inside the chambers of my heart, but this weekend I’m making myself a promise.

Those feelings, no matter how deep and overwhelming they may be at times, will no longer prevent me from showing up fully for my living daughter. For my tiny dancer. For the most sacred relationship of all - the one her and I have shared since she the moment she began to grow inside of me.

Being her mother is the thing that brings me the most joy and hope and comfort in this world, and this weekend is in celebration of how far we’ve both come this past year.

B, I wish more than anything that your siblings could’ve stayed too. That they could’ve had the opportunity to fight. That they could be sitting in the auditorium tomorrow with fists full of snacks and hearts full of joy as they watched you perform on that stage. I hope you know that even though they are amongst the stars in the sky, they’re cheering for you every step of the way.

I love you, baby girl.

I’m here for you - always.