To C. "I Hope You Know"

C.,

You are still growing, still unfolding, still discovering who you are.
And I want you to know something now—before the world tries to drown it out:

I have always loved you.
Not the polished version of you. Not the version that makes things easy.
All of you.

The wild parts.
The stubborn parts.
The brilliant, sharp, dazzling parts that scare small-minded people.

I love the way your spirit refuses to shrink, even when everything around you tries to tell you to play small.

I didn’t always know how to show it perfectly.
I didn’t always have the tools.
I wish I had been taught how to build bridges instead of walls when I was your age.
Maybe if I had, I could have given you a better map.

But please hear me when I say this:

You are not too much.
You are not too loud.
You are not wrong for wanting a life that feels bigger than survival.

I hope you become everything you dream of becoming.
I hope you know you don’t need permission to be your own person.

And I hope—when life gets hard—you will remember:
Strength doesn't come from pretending not to hurt.
It comes from surviving without letting the pain define you.

I will always be here, rooting for you in every quiet corner of the world where love still lingers.
Even when you can’t see me.
Even when you don't believe me.

I will always be your mother—not because of titles or DNA—but because I chose you, over and over again.

And I will keep choosing you. Always.