When your child was born,
you laid her on a blanket on the floor.
You crouched low,
looked her in the eyes.
You goo-goo and gaga’d to draw her in—
you came down to her level.

As she toddled through your home,
you dropped to one knee,
met her where she was.
You spoke gently,
corrected softly,
always guiding her—
down to her level.

As she grew,
your words stayed kind,
you negotiated with patience,
nudged her with wisdom—
still
down to her level.

But now she’s grown.
A woman, yes—
but still your child.
And now, you talk to her as your equal.
You try to relate adult to adult.
But you forgot
to come down to her level.

Because even now,
she looks up to you.
She needs your words
not as a peer,
but as her parent—
measured, loving, grounded.
Down to her level.

I’m sorry your bond is broken.
Not because you changed,
but because you couldn’t find
that shared ground again—
that quiet space where love meets understanding.
Because you didn’t
come down to her level.