A Love Letter to My Dancer

I remember you walking around talking and talking and talking.  Always on the move and always wanting to socialize.  A little bit difficult sometimes for this introvert parent.  But, you gave me a light in my heart that was not there before.  I remember your first dance performance in 4th grade.  You were nervous, and even nauseous before the performance.  I secretly wondered if this really wasn't the 'thing' for you if it made you so ill.  Afterwards, I remember driving home and you were exhilarated.  You loved performing.  You were hooked. 

As time goes on, dance takes more and more of your hours.  I feel like I have 'lost' you sometimes.  My endless talker is gone.  Filling up the few hours at home with homework or sleep.  I feel like a hotel with really good service.  I miss you, my light.

When you started driving, you were gone more and more.  Socializing with your peers and dancing. I know it's all typical for a teenager, but that doesn't make it any easier. 

I wonder if other parents grieve this loss like I do?  The loss of that child who accepted who you were and loved you with all your flaws.  Who would hang out with you and make you laugh and think and grow.  That child turns into a teenager, who would much rather hang out with friends.  That child turns into someone hidden, who does not talk about everything that comes into her head.  That child slowly turns into an adult, naturally separating from her parents. 

It's all part of growing.  That separation.  And watching that growth is beautiful.  I have seen you turn into a leader who is thoughtful and compassionate.  I have seen you embrace art and dance and throw your heart and soul into both of them with passion and creativity.   I have seen you love your friends through hardship.  And, when you do talk to me, I see that you are a deep thinker who truly tries to understand things in a holistic way.  I see your big heart grieve for people going through hardship and reach out to help.  I couldn't ask for more. 

The time does go by in an instant.  And yet, it seems like such a long time ago that you were born after a long night of labor.  When we bonded together alone in that hospital room.  When me, you and Lucy would go on various adventures.  When I would watch your endless trek back and forth across the monkey bars.  When we would play at the lake together.  When we would dance together in the living room before my feet became too screwed up to do that.  When we played games and laughed together as a family.  Some of those things still happen, but it is rarer and rarer.

As you grow and soon leave home, I have to learn who I am apart from being your parent.  I will always be your parent, but the relationship changes.  I have to accept that you are not my little girl anymore.  I have to find my own self apart from you two, my girls.  It's grueling.  This other grief that is not often talked about.  Is it obvious that I have a hard time letting go of almost everything?

You push me to write.  You push me to live, to grow and love.  You push me to think. I hope that I can always be your safe harbor, your resting place, your venting place when the world gets hard.  I hope you can always celebrate your life with me and that we can grow together through this crazy life.  And when I watch you on that stage, I watch in awe.  I created this beautiful person.  This person who can make beautiful art through dance.  This person who can channel her emotions into beautiful pieces of art in all mediums. This person who can lead and love and laugh. Instead, of grieving what I have lost, I will learn to celebrate who you are right now, a young adult passionately launching her way into life.  As I continue to find my own light, your light will always help guide my way. Wherever you are, my heart and my love will always be with you.