To My Future Daughter,

If you are reading this,

it means you were born from a love so deep

that it waited, patiently, until I was ready.

Until I had lived enough.

Healed enough.

Burned away all that was not mine

so I could offer you a world not made of chains,

but of choice.

You see, my beloved,

you were never the goal of my life.

You were never a checkbox on some list of what a woman must do

to be called whole in this world.

You are a miracle —

but not one I chased because society told me I needed you to feel complete.

You are here because I loved so much,

and waited so fiercely,

that the universe chose you to be born from that kind of fire.

And so, I will raise you in a way I was not raised.

You will not be told that your worth lies in how others see you.

Not in how quickly you marry.

Not in how obedient you are.

Not in whether your thighs are slim or your skin stays pale.

You will not be raised to become “someone’s” wife,

“someone’s” daughter-in-law,

“someone’s” anything.

You will be raised to be your own.

Sweetheart, the world may still try to tame you.

It may tell you that you are too strong, too loud, too tender, too soft.

It may try to tell you that you must shrink to be loved,

that you must bend to be accepted.

But you will know better.

Because I will have already whispered in your ear

all the truths I fought to reclaim.

That you were not born to be small.

That your body is sacred not because it might one day give life,

but because it is already life itself.

That your voice matters —

not when it is polite,

but when it is true.

And love?

Oh, my darling, love.

You will not be told to chase it.

You will be taught to be it.

You will know that the right love does not dim you,

does not silence your fire,

does not clip your wings and call it care.

The right love will rise to meet you,

stand beside you,

and walk with you —

as an equal,

as a mirror,

as a sanctuary.

I hope you grow up knowing

that your dreams are not too wild,

your softness is not weakness,

and your power is not something to apologize for.

I hope you always, always come home to yourself

before you try to belong to anyone else.

And if one day the world becomes too loud,

too heavy, too harsh —

remember this:

You come from a long line of women

who broke, bled, and burned

so you could be born free.

You are the legacy of every woman who ever dared to rise

when the world told her to sit still.

And you, my daughter —

are not just my child.

You are my revolution.

With all the love this life has taught me to hold,

Your mother

who loves you more than tradition ever could understand.