I wish I could hug this girl.
Oh, the things I would tell her; the moments I’d remind her to savor, the memories I’d tell her to hold close, to tuck away in a warm, fuzzy blanket in the deepest parts of her soul.
I wish I could tell her that people will break her heart in so many different ways, but to never let that take away her sweet, kind, and gentle spirit.
I’d tell her that you cannot love someone into staying.
I would tell her to spend one more day, one more minute with her step-grandpa, because he will leave his earthly body far too soon, and she will miss him forever. She will never feel like she got enough time with him while he was here.
I would tell her to never compromise her authenticity, the way her heart throws its doors wide open, the way her empathetic spirit radiates love, the way in which she attracts people because they cannot deny the very light that she possesses.
I would remind her that soulmates are not just of the romantic variety. She will find soulmates in friends, in family, and in the family she chooses to walk alongside in this life.
I wish I could tell her that not everyone will be able to hold her magic. That their hands will fail, and she will slip through their fingers.
I would remind her that healing is not linear; it is mountains, and valleys, and rivers, and washboard dirt roads.
I would remind her that she may have her future mapped out, but God determines her steps.
I would tell her that her mistakes and messy moments will not define her, and that forgiveness begins inside the walls of her ribcage.
I would tell her to hold on for one more second, one more minute, one more hour, one more day.
I wish I could tell her, with a shaky voice and tears in my eyes, that life can change overnight. That she cannot prepare for the force of those heavy, devastating blows when they land.
I wish I could tell her that the mental health struggles she will grapple with, and the chronic illness she will face, will not make her small. It will not make her unworthy, unlovable, or weak. It may knock her down, but she will come up swinging – fists up, mouth guard in, ready for the next hit.
I would wrap her in my arms and say, “Don’t you dare give up, don’t you dare quit. I love you, I have always been here, I am holding you in the dark. And I wouldn’t dare dream of leaving you, even when the storms calm down and the power comes back on.”