She’s a lot. She’s been a lot of everything since the time she was born.

She was an emergency caesarean, my first baby, when I didn’t know how to cope with it all emotionally or physically. As I let my health slide, I wasn’t the best I could be for her in those early months. She taught me to stand up and have a voice, for her sake, when I couldn’t do that for my own.

She would stop to look up at the beauty of the sky. Her eyes filled with glee as she took in the colors of flowers. She taught me to pause and notice what I used to appreciate most about life—the stillness of it, nature, and everything around us.

She would mimic my every move, whether it was talking on the phone, washing utensils, dressing up, putting on heels, or simply resting on the couch. Once again, she reminded me to be the best version of myself, to be worthy of her admiration and inspiration. My creative pursuits, once forgotten in the throes of motherhood, were picked up again as I wanted her to know how important it is to find oneself.

Her own creativity blossomed as she filled everything around her with colors, crafts, and stationery of all kinds. She indulged in puzzles and complex games, as that seemed to drive her. But we realised she wouldn’t want to be pushed too far. Frustration often interrupted our games, leading to arguments, stomping, tears, and sobs. After briefly trying to address it, I found distraction was the easiest way out. A new bottle of paint, a bigger canvas, a visit to the park.

Adolescence is hard for her and for me, as there’s a lot more of everything she is.

When there is disappointment with something in school, with friends, or in her studies, maybe a new concept she can’t grasp quickly, her feeling of helplessness is stronger. She’s harder on herself. It’s usually better if I’m not around when that frustration creeps in, as that seems to overwhelm her. But it’s hard to leave her alone when she’s down; as her mom, I am programmed to try to help or at least offer my support. Distractions don’t work because she’d realize what I was trying to do—and that could add to the weight of her emotions.

Over time and after many altercations, my daughter has taught me to give her space even when she’s not sure she needs it. I often need to step away, let her ride the wave of emotion on her own, and come to the other side stronger. She’s taught me to be okay with not helping her out always. In those times, she has taught me to breathe and think through my next steps, my next words.

When I see her feeling down, I close my eyes and see all she is. She feels too much, but she feels as much for others too. She’s my biggest cheerleader as I celebrate small accomplishments in my own personal, professional, or creative goals. She’s my loyal (and only) fan when I sing, and she often sings with me in languages we don’t understand at a volume the neighbours can hear. She’s the most beautiful daughter parents can have and makes us proud every day of her achievements, grace, and beauty. She’s her younger brother’s greatest confidant and biggest strength as he navigates his little world with her as his inspiration. She’d fight for her friends and stand by them through thick and thin.

In adolescence, she teaches me to wait for her to come back from moments of darkness and spread her light in her own way. She knows I’m there for her whenever and wherever she needs me, but what she doesn’t know is how much she’s taught me in her 10 years of being, and how she’s shaped me into who I am today.

Originally published on Her View from Home