A Letter to My Unborn Daughter

Dear Poet,

You only came into my life recently, but you hold so much for me. I’ve put all of my hopes and dreams for our family in you. I’ve put my desires to be a more graceful, newborn Mama this time around in you. I’ve envisioned the completion of our family in you. I’ve put expectations of the sisterhood trio in you. Every time I think of you, I manifest you to be this whisper of wind, blowing in gently and powerful.

But I also know you’ll have your own story to tell.

As much as I try to gain some sense of control by envisioning what you’ll be like and manifesting how you’ll fit into our wild family, I also know you will define yourself. You’re going to forge your own paths, create your own roles, and enter this world when and as you decide.

I had read this somewhere about labor…
“It’s a love story of two people born at the very same moment in different stages of their life.”
I’ve mindfully watched my body change and grow over these past months. I’ve stood in front of the mirror reflecting on new curves, rubbed oil on my growing belly, and sang silent gratitude for everything you’ve already given us. And while there have been moments where I felt insecure in my evolving identity, afraid of change, or even disappointed in my growing body, you always bring me back. I am a complainer. I always have been, and it’s a trait I’ve only focused on improving since becoming a Mama. (Becoming a Mama has a way of pushing us to reflect on exactly who we are and who we want to be.) So, I’ve always been really vocal about what annoys me or what falls short of my expectations, without much consideration for how it sounds or its impact on the people around me. And somehow, any time I uncover a negative thought or feeling regarding this pregnancy or being a newborn Mama all over again, you bring me back. They’re a brief moment, fleeting before they even begin, and you whisper them away with love. For the first time, I’m a Mama that knows full well the challenges I’m asking for are lined in gold. It’s your story that holds me in this space where I am better than I used to be.

You are our last baby, and I know that. You will get the best version of me.

If I really think about it, I’m actually most excited for you to meet everyone else…Dad, Alba, River, Romo.

YOUR DAD. He’s too nice, he’ll spoil you more than he should, but he’s the best as they come. “Sensitivity. He was like one of those machines that registered earthquakes 10,000 miles away.” He’ll know. Even when what you need is unspoken, he’ll know. And he will make it his world.

ALBA AND RIVER. They’ve already been planning ways to train you to be silly and laugh at poop jokes just like them. They’ll probably smother you in the first months as they strive to be the sister who takes care of you, but that’s what they do. They battle, and they love.

ROMO. This guy has adapted to all of our wild evolutions over the past ten years, and he’s been the most gracious of us all. He might be a dog, but he’s one of us. And don’t be surprised if he follows us into every room of the house. He gets very curious!

There is so much love waiting for you. An entire village of it.

I initially wanted to name you “Ember.” And for the first few months of my pregnancy, you were Ember. That’s actually how I introduced you to the girls. You represented this final flame for me in our family. I always think of Alba and River as flames because their energy is so fierce and bright. And I just envisioned you as this subtle, ultimate ember for our family. And I remember a conversation I had with my Mama where she questioned if an ember was the dying part of a fire. I explained it meant the opposite for me. You were going to be this gentle flame whose brilliance was hot enough to start an entirely new fire. We were so set. But then I heard the name “Poet.” It snuck up on me. And as much as I couldn’t believe we were going to change your name, I felt in my gut that Poet was your name.

Poet, tell me a story.

Make it your own.

Find the right words.

And let them spill on to pages.

Be authentic.

Find awe in the small, the big, yourself.

And breathe into those stories.

Because this life is as short as it is long.

The Mama you’ll meet on the day you are born will be different than the Mama writing this letter. And she’ll change several times after that. We’re on this road together, and it won’t always be well lit, but I promise to be an ember in your story. I can’t promise that I’ll always be capable of a raging flame or the perfect Mama who will always be exactly what you need, but I will be there. In every version of myself, I will be there to help you write your story.

Love,
Mama