You exist in a world that seems to hate us.

Between 16-20 weeks gestation; I ached for you. I felt the future ache of your soul decades ago, when I no longer found comfort in daydreams of brushing blonde locks of hair. I quickly feared your gender would be held against you, as mine was used as a weapon, so often.

Sweet girl, so safe with your mother, I fear the world holding your hand. The company of the world, while it seems to be working against your delicate nature, now also meets your fire and fuel. The “me” inside of you, now rages liberally, as it should.

I fear less for you in the world, after observing you with more confident eyes. I fear for the world and the ability you have to change it. My only fear now, is that you’ll change the world so completely, that I won’t be able to recognize it anymore.

“Fear.” I apologize, my lovely lass, but “fear,” is the incorrect word. I do not fear your ability to change the world. I ache now, for your desperate need to change the world, with me. Now, you see why I ached for our gender. I ache for all the delicate buttercups, as you do. We seek out fragile flowers.

Oh my daughter, in the world set to hate our delicate, may we greet the world with the need to be delicate with our fury. I pray our feminine wiles meet compassionate temperance and do not change the world with fire. Oh my daughter, I pray we change the world with kindness. I pray our angst finds a partner in empathy.

This is my prayer for my child.