To My Daughter
a letter for the history you will make
by Kelsey Merritt
published in Issue No. 11: March/April 2021
image by Annie Spratt via unsplash
Dear daughter,
This morning I was lying in bed, feeling the unruly cold seeping in from the window. At -24° last night, I was burrowed deep in the covers, with a hand on my belly, protecting you from it too. Finley, our beloved 3-legged Golden Retriever you will soon know so well, was curled up against me, offering us both the heat she had to offer. Now a half-hour past when we get up during the week, I was waiting to feel you moving and kicking as you do so often, stretching your limbs as far as they go, testing to see what mom’s limits are from the inside (and all too soon you’ll be testing them from the outside). My stomach growled—loudly—and slam! There you were against my hand, scared awake by the sound of my empty stomach. I laughed, making you jiggle, where you began to stretch slowly, waking for the day. Finley raised an eye at me, checking to see who was causing noise.
We’re just a few steps into the third trimester now— you and me. After a nasty first half of the pregnancy that left me worried for both of our health, your dad and I were finally relieved to hear that you were strong and healthy at your midway ultrasound. I could feel the tension leaving both our bodies after being so tense about your well-being for so many months. The nurse dug the ultrasound piece into my abdomen, urging you to move so we could see your sex, as you kicked your legs and squirmed around, making the nurse laugh as she said, “I have never seen a baby move this much during an ultrasound! Ever!” I had been telling your dad for 4 weeks that I felt you moving incessantly. You never stop! And I smiled at your dad as the nurse took a breath, finally confident in saying, “Youuuuu... have a little girl!”
I’ll never forget the exclamations your dad and I both made that turned into laughter as he grabbed my hand, smiling all the way to his bright blue eyes (will you have those eyes?) as he said, “Fierce like her mama!” I laughed again before telling the nurse: “There hasn’t been a girl in his side of the family for almost a hundred years!”
I grew up surrounded by strong women— and you will too. My grandmothers, mother, aunts, and sisters all played a part in making me the strong, stubborn, and kind woman I am. There was a part of me that always knew you would be female. I coached myself over and over to expect a male because of your dad’s family history, but there was a space in my sternum reserved for making the noise you would need to feel loved, supported, and empowered as a woman in our world.
Your sex does not determine who you will be, what goals you will make, or what waves you will create once you come forth into this world. But, I have always known that I would fight for you and the limits placed upon our sex for generations and generations— in all the same ways my mom (your grandma) did.
I learned to be a mom to your brother in a different way than I am learning to be your mom. When I met him and your dad, there was a hole left in both of their hearts, their lives, their memories, by a different woman. My job became one of healing. To do as millions of women have done before me— to pick up the pieces, tend the wounds, and work to put them together again. Your brother came to me cautiously, but endearingly. He wanted nothing more than to be loved and held and taught to bake cookies and given the space to draw pictures with his wild imagination. But, my work for the last 3 years (now nearly half of his life) has been to show him and tell him, repeatedly, that I will not leave. And that as his mother, I will never leave.
Growing you inside me, deep in my womb, at the center of the holy femininity I have always been drawn to (someday I’ll tell you all about the Lady of Guadalupe and the day I felt her heartbeat, or the evening I sat watching the desert stretch before me at sunset, feeling her feminine breath tingling in all around me, or the women who came into my life when I needed them most to remind me that I am whole) has taught me to be a different kind of mother. There are so many types and kinds of mothers and I am always learning how to be a better one, a stronger one, a more present one, but you and your fists and kicks and stretches inside me remind me each day how lucky I am in this life to be a mom to both you and your brother.
Each day, when I wake, I wait to feel your movements, telling me you are okay. I feel you slamming into my sides, pushing me to see how far I’ll stretch, and I am already so incredibly proud of the female you are. Just weeks ago I watched as the first female Vice President was sworn into office and my chest nearly burst as I texted all your honorary aunts (the friends who have held me): My daughter will be born into a world where our country has a female VP.
This world we’re living in now is scary sometimes. And I worry some days about the challenges you will face and the ways I will want to keep you safe, but need to teach you strength. I only hope that you know you can break any parts of the glass ceiling left and I will be here to help you sweep the shards aside, smiling bigger than I ever knew I could: to know that you will be a force in this world we so desperately need.
At that inauguration weeks ago, Amanda Gorman (I promise to teach you all her words) told us to keep going, “For there is always light, if only we’re brave enough to see it. If only we’re brave enough to be it.” And, dearest daughter: my biggest hope for you is that you will be brave enough to be that light. I can’t wait to watch you grow.
All my love,
Your mom.