There are seasons in a mother’s life when loving her daughter means holding on, and there are seasons when it means opening her hands. Gia is standing at the edge of one of hers, and I am learning that my job is not to hand her every answer – or every wound I inherited – but to remind her what belongs to her and what never did.
May she inherit the love, the strength, the humor, the stubborn hope, and every beautiful thing that came before her. But the chains? Those end with me. My daughter gets the crown. She gets the freedom to become. And when HER seasons change, I hope she remembers that becoming is not a betrayal of who she was; it is the fulfillment of who she has always been.
