Last July, I sat at my desk, newly settled in my apartment. Multiple Chrome account windows and tabs deep working on what I can’t remember now. I always had music playing while I worked, and that day was no different; the Spotify DJ shuffled through music. I hadn’t been paying attention to it as I was head down in a project, and usually, it’s just background noise to help my ADHD hyperfocus on whatever I am working on. This song started and caught my attention because I hadn’t heard it before. To be honest, I searched for my Spotify app to skip the song when I saw the picture.
I knew at that moment that it was a God thing. I knew that I knew that I knew that was my daughter in the photo. Not just someone that looked like her; it was her. Tears started to roll down my face. I reached out to a friend for validation that I wasn’t losing my mind, and she said it could be her; I realized that I didn’t need the validation because I knew. I picked up the phone, and I called her. She had my number set to go to voicemail. So, with a wavering voice, I left this message and stared out the window.
Her husband had recorded and produced the song for her. Somehow Spotify had decided I needed to hear it. The same man that I had fought with and come to love for the last eight years. The same man that could and would call me on my crap. The same man who had helped me move countless times and would answer my text when I was desperate to know if she was okay.
Tears run down my face this morning as I even think about it. She had cut me out of her life a few years before. I was allowed to attend her wedding but was not permitted to help. She knew me. She knew I was a soup sandwich. Post-trauma, post-divorce, moving to Florida, my dating life, all of these things: she didn’t know who I was anymore, and she didn’t trust me. Once so co-dependent on one another, the chasm between us killed me. I had never known such soul pain. Others had hurt me, but I knew I had a role in this – this I knew I had done.
I needed to find my healing, and she needed to find hers. We couldn’t do that together, not this time. She needed space, and as a preacher of boundaries, the one that had taught them to her at our dining room table years before, I knew that I had to honor them. It was this dead weight I dragged behind me. Something I rarely talked about except a few beers in with a friend who asked. Drinking was easy, but healing was not. Distracting myself became the norm, and as much pain as it caused, it wasn’t something I could look at; that continued until I heard the song.
Looking back at my life during that period, I realize no one could get to me. I was so inundated with pain that feelings of any kind were too much. I didn’t want to connect with anyone beyond a surface level. I couldn’t breathe, I could go through the motions, but all I accomplished was drinking and sitting. I shut everyone out. She did all she knew to do. She had tried to tell me and I wouldn’t hear her. I was so wrapped up in my pain that I couldn’t walk her through her own.
This time, she called me back. It wasn’t a long conversation; she asked me many questions; what she wanted to know was what I was doing to find my healing. I told her about my bible study, my sessions talking it out, and the time I was spending on my own sober facing it. She told me about her therapy and that she was ready to start, albeit slowly, to see if we could reconcile.
It was up to me to get to her. I arranged plans to spend the weekend of Labor Day in North Carolina. She defined the time; I only had a morning, but we could get a coffee and find somewhere to talk. Her anger and disappointment were painted on her face as we started. All I wanted to do was wrap her up in my arms and love her; she had things she needed to say, so I sat and listened. It’s so easy to go into defense mode in this situation, but she had afforded me time with her, and it was vital for her to get her thoughts and feelings out. The time flew by, but by the end of our time together, we were joking and had found common ground again. Hearts and minds clear.
It was a slow change. She didn’t want to talk as much as I did. She had a new life I knew little of, and I was desperate for connection, but I gave her the space and time to wade back in. She came to Florida for a few days after Christmas. We spent one day together alone doing our favorite mother-daughter activities: nail appointments and shopping. There was laughing, more conversation, and finally, a hug. It had been so long since she had let me hug her.
I mentioned a trip that I was planning. I still have this dream to take women on these grand adventures to reveal the confidence that we all carry, and I had one that I wanted to do the weekend after Valentine’s Day. She immediately booked a flight. No one else could go due to circumstances; I knew God had this time set aside just for her and me. So we went skydiving from 18,000 feet, kayaking in the dark to see the bioluminescence of the Indian River. We sat on the bed on our AirBnB and played SkipBo for hours. We ate breakfast at a cute diner and dinner outside in the sunshine. And we talked. And talked, and talked. No stone unturned, no slight undiagnosed, nothing left unsaid. We slept in the same bed as we had done for years, and both of us felt safe and connected. And it changed everything.
We FaceTime often now. I get the same texts I used to when she was a teenager. Are you busy? No response will lead to multiple iMessages. It feels so typical, but I no longer take it for granted.
She is here in Florida with her best friend for her birthday weekend. She turns 25 today. Yesterday, we took a few hours to do our mother-daughter routine. Our nails look great. Then we spent the afternoon in the pool at her safest place on earth, my parent’s backyard in the pool with family and dogs running around playing. It was glorious.
Tears come without prompting. I cried the whole way down yesterday to pick her up. They run down my face this morning as I finally write this out, which I have been planning for weeks to tell. Today, she and her best friend are jumping out of a perfectly good airplane for no reason other than a reminder that they are alive. I love that adventurous, spunky, brave-as-hell girl of mine. All of my children as individuals have shaped me into what I am. They all inspire. She, however, challenges me on every level to be a better me. And God, am I grateful. This last year, walking through all of these layers of bs that I have compiled, I am thankful for the love of my kids. I have had conversations with all three of them about the vulnerability shared and the healing path we are all on individually. All I can do is lean in and feel the love.
And insane pride.
