Dear Daughter,
Confession: I wanted this series of letters to be a book.
I’ve always wanted to write a book, and I loved the idea of my first one being this legacy/tribute to you. I wanted to be able to have all of these stories and wisdom and pieces of me wrapped in a shiny, neat, published, organized package just for you.
But people aren’t neat and shiny and organized and neither is learning or life. And with this book, I got so caught up in trying to make it perfect that never got around to writing it. I thought I couldn’t do it until I could do it right.
There’s something to be said for trying to do something well. For striving for perfection.
But not when it keeps you from doing things you want to do.
For example, I don’t look like a runner. After two babies in less than two years, plus the years of nursing those babies and not having enough to energy to exercise regularly and eating more junk food than healthy food, I don’t look anything like a runner. But actually, I enjoy running. I’m slow. I’m out of shape. But I enjoy running.
It’s been on my bucket list for years to run a half marathon. So last July, a friend and I decided to sign up for one.
I’m not going to lie: part of me wanted to wait until I looked more like a runner before I actually ran, especially in a public race. I wanted to be fitter and faster. I wanted to do it as perfectly as I could.
But instead, I signed up. And I trained. And it was hard. But the moment I crossed that finish line was awesome. And two days ago I finished my second half marathon. And I’m proud of myself for doing it. But even better was coming home and hearing you tell me that you were proud of me.
If I had waited until the circumstances were perfect, I would still be waiting.
And if I were waited until I knew how to write this all perfectly, I would never write it.
I may not know how to do this perfectly, but I don’t want to let that stop me. The truth is, it doesn’t matter what form this writing takes, whether it is blog posts or a book or sticky notes in a drawer.
So I won’t.
Love, Mom