Dear Kanani, A Love Letter

My Dearest Kanani,

How could I ever convey to you how magical you are? How special? How beautiful? Words are so inadequate, but I am not a painter nor a musician. I am not a sculptor nor dancer. All I have are words.

You have been through so much, my love. Enough to freeze your heart, to turn away, to lose hope. And still you love, you hope, you dream. You continue to believe in people, to strive to ease suffering where you may, and spread joy if itʻs within your power. You so want to believe in the goodness of people and in the world even when it costs you.

You have been a good mom. All you need to do is look at your children to see it. Noah and Lucy are such amazing humans and they love you and want to protect you so fiercely. They are kind and generous and weird— just like you! They love you so much, Kanani, and they are not garbage people. They are stunning and vibrant, like their mom. I know you wish you had done some things differently— listened to them more, gave them better advice, provided a better home life, but I know you were doing the best you knew how.

Kanani, you think a lot. Perhaps you overthink. Maybe itʻs the writer in you, though you say youʻre not creative, but youʻre always coming up with narratives in which horrible things happen to yourself. But that brain? It is wonderful. It might just be the most beautiful thing about you. Your curiosity and desire to learn. You question, you turn a critical eye on things, you want to know why. That brain! It writes! You tell stories, whether fiction or non, that resonate with others. Many have commented on the strength of your voice, on your ability to verbalize a thing and connect an idea with an emotion. 

And when you turn your sights on a person, the love letters you write! Holy shit! You pour your heart into those letters. You paint pictures with your love and admiration. You turn that shit ON. Can you imagine what it feels like to be the focus of that much warmth? That much love? You understand that love is textured and layered. It is about who an individual is— their personality, their looks, their likes and dislikes, etc. Itʻs also about how they treat others, how they treat you, how they make you feel. You can take the smallest thing, the most seemingly-insignificant thing and turn it into gold. And not because you can, but because that thing matters that much to you.

Oh, to matter that much to you! I would love to matter that much to you. I would fight for it! I would fight to have your attention, to be in your circle, for you to see me and turn that smile and intelligence in my direction. So that we might have a philosophical conversation or a good and hearty laugh. So that maybe I could hear about your challenges and help ease your pain. So that we can make better sense of the world. Together.

The world can be scary, sweet girl, and I know you get scared. I know you are sometimes terrified to go out into it because thereʻs pain to be had and you never know when or where or how. I know you sometimes feel inadequate and unequal to the task. You feel small, insignificant, insufficient, and replaceable. You feel unworthy. But, Kanani, who is stronger? For real, girl, who? You have fought through so much and continue to fight. You keep pushing, you keep trying, you keep doing the hard work even if you think you look foolish. You expose yourself, you humble yourself, and you laugh. Oh, that laugh. That laugh that so many comment on. That laugh that I know you feel self-conscious about. Too loud, too brash, how annoying. No, sweet girl, no. That laugh that says “I love life.” That laugh is powerful.

I see you doing things that scare you all the time, Kanani, and I am so proud of you. I am in awe of you. I am so impressed that you can imagine a different life for yourself. And I canʻt believe how amazing you are and you donʻt even see it. That is a shame, a travesty, because you should know. You should know how loved you are, how amazing and kind you are, how talented and inspiring you are. You deserve to know. And if you ever doubt, if you ever waver, if you find yourself on the floor, sobbing, believing that you are unimportant, a burden, too much, not enough, crazy, unloved, unseen, broken? I will never tire of showing you how much you mean to me. How important you are to me, how I can never get enough of you, how your craziness just adds to my life, never subtracts. You are loved so much, sweet girl. I love you.

Postscript:

I sobbed while writing this. It has been a rough week and I started spiraling this afternoon. Then for some fucking bizarre reason, I thought I should write a love letter to myself (because I love receiving love letters). I immediately knew it was the right thing to do because of that feeling of my heart being torn to fucking pieces. That agony? That was the the feeling of paying attention to little Kanani who just craves tenderness and love.

Old Pain

I'm scared.

A lot of things scare me, like falling off the pole and onto my head, reversing my car into a pedestrian, my daughter walking home alone at night.

I'm also afraid of having friends, of not having friends. Of being loved, and of not being loved. I'm absolutely terrified of being vulnerable, which isn't necessarily the same thing as being myself because I'm not always afraid to be myself (have you seen me in public? Heard me?), though being exposed and unshielded scares the shit out of me. 

I cry.

I cry a lot sometimes. I cry because I get invited to fun things, because people include me in their plans, because people make space for me. I cry because I feel pressure to have fun, to enjoy myself. I cry because I suspect I'm not enough, I'm not good enough, because I fear being disposable.

I don't always know who I am, you see. You see, I'm in the process of relearning who I am in that cliched midlife crisis sort of way while simultaneously rebelling against that cliche in every way I can. And even though I believe this process is neverending and should ever be neverending, I wish it would end already with me on top of the world, happy, confident, and soft and tender and pillowy and full of love for myself and the world at large.

When I start to fear that I'm not enough, that I could never be enough to be loved, to be cherished, to be respected and honored; that I could never be enough to be honored with transparency and tenderness and with the love that I seek in the world; I've stopped telling myself that I know better. I've stopped (mostly) discounting those fears. I've (mostly) stopped scolding myself or even building myself up, puffing up my chest in defiance of my doubt. Because it's taken me so long to finally (FINALLY) accept that it's okay to be fucking scared.

Scaredy cat, crybaby, wuss, panty, needy. Call me whatever names you will, I'm (mostly) okay with that. Because I am scared and I do cry. And whatever negative spin you put on it, trust me, I've said worse about myself. And we'd both be wrong. Wrong wrong fucking wrong.

It's okay to be scared. It's okay to cry. I ask my therapist, "What the fuck good will it do just to acknowledge the pain I feel?" I laugh because I'm also stupid. So stupid. And I say that with love, yo. I'm fucking stupid. Because what in all the world have I ever wanted but to be seen, to be heard, and to be held with tenderness. And yet here I am, not seeing, not hearing, and treating myself with contempt.

So, Iʻve been holding myself close today. Telling myself the sweetest things even if I feel a fraud. Imagining Iʻm talking to one of my kids as if theyʻd said, “Mom, Iʻm scared” or “Mom, Iʻm scared Iʻm not good enough” or “Mom, the world is scary and I feel very exposed.” What would I say to that? How would I show them all the love in my heart? How would I show them they are not alone? How would I love the shit out of them?

How would I love the shit out of myself?

It seems impossible to me at the moment to fully embrace that I am enough. I know that in the course of my life, I will experience hurt and disappointment. I know that people will be dishonest, cruel, sometimes even with the best intentions. This is a normal part of things. Still, it seems impossible to fully embrace that I am enough and that I deserve all the fucking things I want and need. I will be hurt and disappointed and it is still safe to be open and to be soft and to love with abandon.

There will be days that Iʻll know. Days that Iʻll be so fucking fired up with myself, filled up with myself, bursting with the knowledge of my own beautiful worth. This is my goal. I will not always be like this-- so fearful and unsure-- I will be somewhere else on this journey. I will not always be like this, I will be more sure-footed.

This is the life I choose, you know. I choose this difficult, sometimes ridiculous work of learning to be with old pain, of not running from it, of facing it and loving it and showing it the tenderness it so desires and is worthy of. The work I do is my path, and I believe that more than anything else right now.