By Zara Quiter, TIWP Student

Inspired by Sarah Kay’s Ted Talk

If I should have a daughter, I would take her skipping through the trees, racing through the daisies, just to hear her laugh. I’d take her every year until she was sick of me just to catch a glance of her being young once again. I would pack her bagels and cream cheese, just so we could have a picnic in the fields, so she could stare at the sky and watch the clouds go by.

I’d tuck her in each and every night and sit by her side, waiting for her to sleep, and hope she dreams good dreams. Hope she dreams big dreams. I’d hum tunes or sit in silence, if only I knew she was resting. If only I knew she was able to slip into a world of make-believe each night.

I’d take my darling girl to her friend’s house and waste my time watching her play princesses, or pirates, scientists or queens. And I would just stare in awe at how she sets herself free from the limitations of our world, climbing high, higher than I’ve ever reached.

I’d wipe her tears away and save them in a jar, so she can look back at all she’s overcome. So she knows she’s strong. And as she cries, I will cry, but I will learn to let her be not okay. Because one day I’ll accept that the world isn’t made for her, and those tears will be the fuel for all the energy it takes when she learns she’s ready to fight. 

And before that day, and on that day, and every day after that, I will work until the skin is falling from my hands, until the natural forces gnaw on my eyes, just so the hard work is a little easier for her. Because sheltering isn’t the answer, and neither is throwing her out into the winds. 

No, I must teach her how to fly. How to stretch her wings and soar against the gusts that may hit her, how to dodge the tornadoes in our path. How to push through the storms to find clear skies. But most importantly, I want to teach her how to sing  in the rain, how to dance in the drought, and how to laugh in the hurricanes, just as she did in the daisy fields, when she was nothing but a little girl in a very big world.

I know she can do all these things. And I know it will be hard. And I know I will always be a net in the background, ready to catch her in case her wings disappear, and prepared to help her find them again. That is what I know, that is all I know I can be. And yet, I believe in her.

Like someone’s God, I believe she can light a path in suffocating darkness. She can fill the seas and push mountains out of the Earth. And on a smaller scale, I believe she can captivate a crowd, or inspire her peers, or exist in the double-standards placed on her shoulders. 

Yes, I believe.

Because if I don’t, what is she? Then there is no future; no meadows or nightmares or breakups or wars she must wage against society that I get to see. If I have no hope for my daughter, then how is there a me? How does each woman decide whether or not she will bring another pillar of light into the world, if she even gets a choice?

Because that, that is who we strive to be. The bravest. The smartest. The kindest. And yet, despite that, insignificant. So small just so our children can be braver, and smarter, and kinder. If I should have a daughter, I hope she doesn’t become all that I am. I hope she only becomes my heart, so that my mind can flourish and my muscles can flex, and my feet can run, and my hands can write, and I can still stand there, ready to embrace her. And give her the biggest hug that is still specifically, iconically, uniquely me.