I’ve failed you once.
I forced my views and when you didn’t conform, I piled on judgement in my need for you to be okay.
Most times, I was too busy keeping score to know when you needed help. I felt you spinning out of control and I wanted to protect you from your niave adolescent self. My expectations came before your hurt and pain, before your desires and interests. I leashed you with my domineering, mothering way, like you leash a dog to keep it from running away, and called that love.
But this time will be different.
Even though I can barely suppress my what ifs, locking them down tight, to keep them from feeding the fears of failing you again, still, I know this time will be better. I know what it feels like to see you go. I know what it feels like to not know where you are, if you’re eating, if you’re warm, if you’re safe.
It’s been almost a year since I’ve seen you, held you in my arms, kissed you until you were grossed out, smelled you, I know how much you hated that and secretly loved it at the same time.
This time, I want so badly to love you with a love that leaves room for you. I want to be as quiet as a feather falling from a birds wing, so that your voice is heard loud and clear, no longer altered or muffled. I want to be as strong as Samson, so that you can make mistakes and not feel like the whole world will come down on you.
And I will, be different for you. This time, I’ll accept you without needing you to be anything more than who you are, ’cause that’s always been enough.