Baby girl,

The first time I feel your tiny body in my hand, I realize my heart has been torn out of my chest. It’s been given arms and legs and a small, beautiful face, and now I have to watch it run around outside of me and guide it so I don’t lose it.

I know I will protect you because you are the Holy Grail men spend their entire lives searching for.

You are everything. No one will love you more than I do. Nothing will come between us.

You will grow up in an unkind world, a world that shouts and spews oceans of hatred. They will tell you that you’re worth less than the boys you’ll want to date.

But you will grow strong and proud, fearless of those oppressive ideals because you know better.

And when you come to me and tell me you love girls, too, with the burning passion of a million fire ants, I won’t let you see how much this worries me.

Because as hard as life was for you as a girl, my baby, it will be even more difficult when people spill oil and acid into the bay where you grew up. And all of the positivity you learned will sink under their screams of “****” and “******” and “*****”.

I will be here, though, to love you and show you that kindness is the sword in the stone that you need to rule your kingdom. You will be the mightiest queen we’ve ever seen because you know how hard life is, and you’ll teach your children and their children the respect and passion they need to make this stagnant bog flow.

But

But when you tell me that you are not my daughter at all,
that you’ll never be my baby girl,
because I taught you to find Excalibur,
and you realized you were King Arthur,
what am I supposed to do?
Am I supposed to love and support you unconditionally because you are still my child?
Everything I know says that this is wrong, every cell in my body says you are my daughter and changing your life like this is wrong and it will be so hard for you to be this boy you want to become.

How can I let you blossom into your own person when you’re not safe stepping beyond the persona I made for you?