A wish for Isabelle

I wanted to write a letter last month to Isabelle when she turned 13—one of those missives advising her to grab all the gusto, listen to her own voice, and thumb her nose at naysayers. But I knew the cliché nature of it would make her roll her eyes and say, “Oh, Ginny,” the way she does whenever I dream up something corny. If she’s feeling particularly verbal at the time, she’ll also say I remind her of Will Ferrell, which I think might be a compliment.

Still, it’s hard to let this moment go by, to allow her to just continue being beautiful, smart, funny and sentimental all on her own. It’s tough to sanction this, you know, this growing up and becoming brave that she’s doing, completely without some sage words of wisdom from me. Last week, I drove her to buy a birthday card for one of her seemingly endless number of friends. As someone whose been there ever since her mom (my best friend) brought her home, I wanted so much to fill that half-mile drive with guidance about the hidden perils of seventh grade, the possible dangers of being open to new experiences, the tenuousness of everything.

She had been sick for a few days before this, though, her deep brown eyes a little deeper and darker than usual, so I spared her the pointers, however well-intentioned they might have been. I snuck a look at her at a stoplight, saw her long, brown hair fall against her hands as she deftly texted Grace, or Maya, or whomever. My chest felt tight, my head full. I wasn’t sure whether to stop her or push her to keep going—try and hold her back, or urge her to go beyond anything she can imagine as possible. Fortunately for Isabelle—and me—I just asked about the cupcake-baking contest they’d be having at the birthday party she’d be attending that night.

When I dropped her off, after she’d selected the perfect card—without, of course, any help from me—I watched her sprint into the house with a confidence I didn’t experience until I’d been in therapy for years. It’s that therapy, no doubt, that echoes in my head when I know not to tell her how to live her life.

I can feel the nearly suffocating narrowness of the line we all walk, those of us who have signed up to be her crew, but I know it’s we who have to hold our breath—not her. My job, our job, is to be here, arms outstretched, to grab her when she starts to fall; to hug her when she needs a reward or a friend. Still, it’s definitely a staying-in-the-shadows operation; one that requires constant attention to nuance. Anything can happen, you know, whether we want it to or not. My wish for Isabelle is that she will learn what that means and embrace it without too much fear. My wish for the rest of us is that we can give her the room to do it.