Brain: off. Heart: on.

Of choosing our own endings. A letter to my daughter.

I hold your tiny, wet body close to my heart while you cry. You refused to let me wrap a towel around you, and now my clothes are soaked. Under my jumper and my long-sleeve henley, my damp tank top is beginning to stick to my skin. But it doesn’t matter. You’re calming down now. Your head is resting on my shoulder as I nestle you in my arms. Your mild, brown eyes, liquid and glistening with tears, are locked into mine. Your view from there must be quite similar — my own brown eyes, liquid and glistening with tears, locked into yours.

You got upset because the time for your bedtime shower ended too soon and you would have liked to stay in for a little bit longer. I understand, and you’re right — it is frustrating to stop doing something when you’re enjoying it so much.

You know, I had to take a deep deep deep breath before opening the bathroom door when I heard you crying. I had to find my heart again — the waves of tiredness and frustration were about to carry it away. Sometimes grown-ups forget what it’s like to be two years old. Sometimes mama forgets how upset she gets when she has to rush her shower or cut it short.

I know you’re not crying just because of the shower — although I can see it is a perfectly good reason to be upset, if I only choose to listen to my heart rather than my overwhelmed brain. You’re crying because it’s been a long day for you too. We have all had a long day — you, mama, daddy. Even your sister in my belly seems to have felt it.

It’s been what adults call “one of those days”. Daddy and I woke up tired and nervous, and we felt as if just about anything today was set out to make us even more tired and nervous. Sometimes it happens. There are days when you feel as if you’re carrying around your own personal cloud of rain — it floats just above your head like a balloon and it seems to follow you wherever you go. The more you focus your attention on it, the heavier the rain becomes.

We’ve been stressed and you’ve been soaking up all of our negativity. I’d love to tell you that days like this won’t happen again. That you will never have to breathe an atmosphere of irritation, sadness, or tension again. But I can’t promise you that. It will happen again, because we are human. You, and mama, and daddy. Sometimes things will just get a little too big for us and we will struggle to manage our emotions — they will overspill and, if we are not careful, they will flood the whole room. And when it happens they can steamroll over everyone in it, even if they don’t deserve it. I cannot promise you I won’t have a bad day again but I can promise you this — I can promise you to be more careful.

You know, today could have gone two ways. I could have given into my first response — the script running though my brain is engraved in deep and the bodily reactions are automatic, almost unconscious. It’s easy to tell myself that I deserve some peace, that things don’t need to be so difficult all the time, that you’re crying for nothing, that this is just an unnecessary tantrum over a silly reason, that it’s unfair. It’s even easier to believe this narrative and let myself slam the door open and raise my voice.

But the thing is, behind that script there is an open wound. Because it’s true, I do deserve some peace. And things do not need to be so difficult. However, it’s not down to you to make them easy for me. I have a choice, I can let this be easy. For me. For you. For us.

Gaslighting and sweeping statements, even when unintentional, cut deep and and the wounds heal sorely — if they ever do. I am so used to swallowing big words and broad merciless generalisations that I cringe at myself witnessing just how readily they flood out of my mouth, even though I know just how much they hurt. Even if I know that they are not true. Because things are not so difficult with you, and definitely they are not difficult all the time. And you are not crying for nothing and the only thing that would be truly unfair would be to make you feel that your reasons are silly, and make you believe that you are silly too as a result.

It pains and terrifies me to realize just how damn easy it is to suddenly find myself on the other side, after years on the receiving end. The same sentences that I have heard too many times break through my unchecked mental walls with a battering-ram and come out of my lips word by word. Hearing them out loud with the sound of my own voice is horrifying.

I understand better, now. I know it will happen again to me, maybe tomorrow, maybe this week — I will find myself on the receiving end, time and time again, because this is the way of my family. And it will hurt. It always will. But now that I know just how easy it is to hurt without meaning to, I can bind my wounds with balmy newfound compassion and move on.

Still, this is not what I choose for us. My hand is a tight grip around the bathroom door’s handle. The grip wringing my guts feels even tighter.

Somehow, I choose the second option. I am not sure I could confidently reverse engineer the exact path that led me to snap out of victim-mode autopilot. I just know that it takes a split second and suddenly it all feels…right. In fact, I suddenly feel alright. Everything else follows naturally — I open the door, my arms and my heart.

I imagine my own hardened adult heart next to yours — soft, innocent, so pure — beating side by side, in harmony. Brain: off. Heart: on. Suddenly it’s easy to know what to do. Stay in the moment, don’t diminish the situation or your feelings by trying to distract you or minimising the problem. Sit on the floor and wait, let you come to me when you’re ready. Don’t impose anything onto you, not even caring actions if it can be helped — the towel can wait, the bathroom is warm enough. Give you space and time to feel all your emotions, let you journey through them at your own pace. Ackowledge — it is frustrating having to come out when you’re having so much fun. Offer something positive, keep relating — I am so glad you’re enjoying your showers, mama likes a warm shower too. Then reassure — we are having another shower tomorrow night, remember? Dada likes to shower with you when he comes back from boxing. How about we try to have dinner a bit earlier so we have more time?

And now, here we are — your eyes into mine, my heart next to yours, my arms around you. We even got the towel finally on you. Your sister has also calmed down — she knows you’re cuddling her too. The farm animals of your bedtime story are waiting for us to wish them goodnight, shall we get our pajamas on and join them?

All is well.

A whole new script. A whole new set of lines.
A completely different scene. A completely different story.
Definitely another ending.

I love you.
I love you enough to change for you.
I love you enough to grow with you.
I love you enough to drop all my defenses before you.
I love you enough to spend the rest of my life ensuring that you will never need to raise yours between us.
I love you.

Sweet dreams,
Mama

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More on this theme from —of rosemary and time:

• Learning to love beyond fear. Of modern witches' trials and navigating toxic family dynamics: a little rant + asking for advice.

• A mother's heart. Of loving, letting go, and holding on.

• Unraveling generational patterns. Of mothers, daughters, and making my own mistakes.

Other words you may enjoy:

• Saffron flowers and permission slips. Of writing, mothering, and allowing space for life in between.

• Foraging for unclaimed persimmons. Of mothering the self, stolen glimmers of bliss, and being a little naughty.

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