Raising a strong daughter with heart
I thought heartbreak was something only experienced in soured romances. But watching your child process betrayal is a whole other level of pain. It’s like the heart’s shattering in shuffle mode in a loop, and I can only let it happen helplessly. The only way is through.
My 9-year-old daughter, wise beyond her years, is done with forced dinners and fake smiles. She’s seen through the facade, the lies, and she wants no part of it. She sits there, stiff; she can easily win a try-not-to-laugh challenge. I don’t blame her.
She remains a consistent exemplary conduct awardee and first-honor recipient at school. Her jiujitsu moves? Even sharper. But at home or the mall? She clings to me like a tuko (gecko). I’ve had to wear my bag between us so I won’t trip over her while walking. She watches me like a hawk as if making sure I won’t crumble. When she catches me crying, she hugs me and strokes my hair: “Don’t worry, Mom. We’re gonna show them we can make it.”
My little warrior. Strong but still a child. It worries me.
It’s easy to mistake resilience for healing. It’s tempting to think she’s handling our new family dynamics so well. But I know better. I see how she tenses up when our dementor walks into the room, the way she avoids eye contact at the table and refuses to engage in conversation as if acknowledging existence grants power.
It’s not our fault, but it’s still my responsibility. How do I help her when I’m barely keeping it together myself?
I don’t have it all figured out, but I let her feel however she wants. Angry? Fine (though it hurts loads when she takes it out on me, her safe space). Sad? Of course (I’m in and out of that mode as well). Confused? Who wouldn’t be (it’s a reprise of why Camilla Parker Bowles over Princess Diana)? No one can push her to forgive, but I try not to fuel the fire. When I say, “You don’t have to like what’s happening, but you still have to show respect,” she challenges me, “Why? Were we respected?”
Boundaries
She can tell when someone isn’t genuine. She made me realize that respect isn’t automatic; it’s earned. She taught me that boundaries are necessary; you don’t have to engage with someone just because society tells you to. You get to decide who has access to you.
My son is sometimes angry with God: “How could He let this happen?” For a moment, I am at a loss, till I remember: God never promised a life free from suffering. He promised to walk with us through it.
When words fail, I let her express her grief in other ways. She can spend hours drawing, making crafts, or writing (she’s quite prolific). Regular jiujitsu training is equally therapeutic for us all, and she rolls until she’s physically and mentally spent. Other times, I relish the quiet moments when she just wants to be held as we watch “Gilmore Girls” or “Modern Family.”
It’s tricky. Like my daughter, I don’t pretend everything’s fine when it’s not. I let her see that even strong people struggle, like in jiujitsu, but you don’t need to be in an uncomfortable position forever. You must actively learn and practice getting out of bad situations to survive. But she also needs to know that she can still depend on me. So when she sees me cry, I don’t bother hiding it. I say, “I’m sad now, but I’ll be okay. And so will you.”
I also remind her that I am not healing by myself. We lean on our family, friends, and faith because if I fall apart, who will catch her?
No one can force her to speak to people she doesn’t want to. She’s not ready, and I respect that. But I also don’t want her to harden her heart. Such a burden is too heavy for a child (or anyone, really). So, I try (and sometimes fail) to keep my words neutral. When she throws tough questions, I say, “Sometimes, adults make choices that hurt others. It doesn’t mean you’re not important. It just means they can’t be who you need them to be.”
Then I try to deflect gracefully, but she sees through it: “You’re changing the subject.”
New traditions
I’ve long since stopped making excuses for others’ bad decisions, but I also don’t make her feel guilty for how she feels. She’ll figure it out one day, on her own terms. My job isn’t to form it for her; it’s to ensure she gets through this episode in our lives with her goodness intact.
I still don’t always handle our day-to-day with grace. There were tears, a lot of them (especially pre-SSRI), but I also realized that family is about who shows up for you.
So, we’re making new traditions that remind my kids (and me) that our memories matter just as much, even if they aren’t fancy.
My daughter is an old soul in a tiny body. People look at her and think, “She’s so strong.” But I worry about what that label does to her. Does she feel like she has to be okay all the time? Does she push her pain down so she won’t worry me?
Despite encouragement, she refuses to join jiujitsu tournaments, even though she could easily choke out Shrek. I don’t push. Maybe fighting for medals feels too much like fighting for approval, or perhaps she just wants one thing in her life that isn’t about proving something. So, I say, “You don’t have to prove anything to anyone. Just showing up, working hard, and growing every day is a win.”
If she ever wants to compete, she’ll do it on her terms. I get it. Why would she want another battle when she’s already in one at home? She’s already in the toughest fight there is—learning to heal. That’s more than enough.
This was not how things were supposed to be for us. But plans change, so we’re figuring it out day by day. I don’t have all the answers. I probably never will. But I do know my daughter will be okay because she’s learning that strength isn’t just about brute force—sometimes, it’s knowing when to rely on someone else for support. And she knows she can lean on me.
