Me Being Me

Last night, when the lights were out, Lucia started crying. I asked her what was wrong, she said nothing, she just kept crying. In the dark, we drew closer to each other and she nestled into my arms. (What is gratitude but the profound truth that no matter how big she gets, she will always fit inside me? In my womb, my arms, my heart.)

I asked again, "What's wrong, Ci?"

"I don't like me being me," she said.

Can I tell you how painful this was to hear? Can I tell you how this shattered my heart? Can I tell you how the weight of that crushed my soul? Can I tell you how the light that pierced the darkness when I turned on the lamp illuminated nothing?

"What do you mean?" I asked.

She cried for a few more minutes.

In those minutes I thought: What if she absorbed all of my self-doubt? What if she senses how much I hate myself and she thinks this is okay? What if she learns that it is impossible to love yourself because of me? What if she grows up thinking this way? What if she never understands how beautiful she is in every way? What if she never gets to know who she really is—the only true and beautiful thing in my world? What if—?

"Mommy, I want to be you. I don't want to be me anymore, I want to be you..."

Can I tell you how painful this was to hear? Can I tell you how this shattered my heart? Can I tell you how the weight of that crushed my soul? Can I tell you how the light that pierced the darkness when I turned on the lamp illuminated...everything?

She continued to cry.

"I love everything about you, Ci. You being you is the best thing that ever happened to me. I love every bit of you."

She continued to cry.

"Did something happen for you to feel this way?" I asked.

She shook her head. She hugged me tighter. She said, "I want to be you, Mommy."

And in all helplessness and wonder and humility and gratitude and fear, I held her till she fell asleep.