Twenty-One

Dear Lauren,

I think I’ll forego the annual reference to how fast time is passing us by. (Lord knows I’ve covered that theme well enough in my previous letters for when you turned eight,  nine,  ten,  eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen and twenty.)

Like every year for the last 14 years, I’ve sat at my computer searching for the words that might come close to expressing the depth of my love for you—and the awe I feel in witnessing who you’re becoming.

Time for a famous Geisler/Sarney woman sidebar: Do you know that every time I cut your father’s hair—something I’ve been doing every three weeks since the start of COVID—he always says the same thing after he surveys the results in the mirror? “Well, I’m going to go out on a limb here and say… this is your finest work yet.”

Of course, he’s now said it about 81 times (give or take), so I cut him off after the “well,” but honestly, if I didn’t hear it, I’d feel sad.

I feel the same way writing this letter to you as I have for the past 14 years.

Worried that THIS time, I will have failed to encapulsate or name my absolute and profound love for you. Worried that THIS time you won’t receive a reflection of the you we are fortunate enough to see.

Because being seen, as you know, matters. And I pride myself on reflecting well.

Except when I don’t. 

This year, there’s a note of melancholy in this letter. You might feel it around the edges.

To say it’s been a hard year would be reductive.

It’s been brutal.

And the world? It’s rougher than I ever hoped it would be when you opened your eyes on your 21st birthday. News cycles filled with leaders—and those who empower them—disregarding humanity and the planet. Injustices I wish I could shield you from. But I can’t. And I wouldn’t. Because that’s not what you’re here for. And it’s not how we do.

Last night, as we marvelled over the incredible plant-based Japanese steak at Planta (seriously—how do they do that?), and again over molten lava cake in our little corner of the world, you opened up about what’s weighing on your ever-expanding heart.

More than once, I caught my breath.

I pride myself on being attuned to all that you are holding. But this year, it’s been harder to track it all. Mostly because the hits have been coming from every corner.

And when I say I’m proud of you, I mean I am PROUD.

I fail (often) and I get a lot right (often). But your grace for my humanness (and hers, and his and theirs) is what makes you legendary.

And the way you allow yourself to BE with the hard and the disappointment and the fears as WELL as the joys, whatever they may be, well, damn. That’s some quality maturity I didn’t have access to until I was well into my 30’s.

I believe that at your best, you remember your literary crush Walt Whitman’s "I am large, I contain multitudes."

I think you have that on lock as a touchstone to come back to.

So today, I want to offer you a different invitation from Walt Whitman. One that feels right for now:

“I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.”
— Song of Myself

Let’s break it down.

“I celebrate myself.”

Not someday. Not when you’re the perfect version of you feel you are supposed to be. The one who wakes without an alarm and never gets it wrong and always reflects the best and loves the gym and gets the perfect job and loves every part of herself and always says the right thing and always always always chooses to fight the good fight and has the shiniest hair (this one may sound all too familiar).

Not then.

Now.

An invitation to stand tall in your identity, your beauty, your becoming. As you are. Because the fact that you exist is more than reason enough for celebration. 

“... and sing myself”

And today? On your 21st birthday? My God. Sing as loud as your lungs will allow.

You won’t be singing alone, mind you. Your voice will be joined by a chorus of friends, family, neighbours, acquaintances and chosen family overjoyed to celebrate the stunning revelation of a human that you are.

(And yeah, you KNOW I’m woo enough to remind you that your and theirs and ours are STILL not the only voices singing. You’ll be hearing in stereo as some beloveds sing from the other side too.)

But my deep desire is that you learn to sing yourself. For when we do get it wrong and drop the ball. Like we have, and like we will.

Sing yourself for your wit and your wonder. For your honesty and your charm. For your non sequiturs and your laser-sharp insight. For your beauty and your righteous rage.

There is oh so much to sing about. Maybe that’s why I found myself breathless last night.

And then notice how Whitman folds you into the universe itself. Every atom that belongs to him, belongs to you too.

Which means—
You are part of everything.
EVERYTHING.
You belong.
You matter.
And your voice—your being—is essential.

Worth celebrating, worth singing.

Remember that.

I love you with all I have, and then some, and then some more.

/Mama