She doesn't get her curls from me

Wresting through thoughts on my relationship with my daughter

I wrote this during a complicated season earlier this year, when I found myself quietly struggling to feel bonded with my daughter.

I suppose I was still carrying the weight of my postpartum mental health challenges from 2024. Waves of anxiety, intrusive thoughts, and a lingering numbness that made it hard to access the joy I thought would come naturally after having put everything “behind” me.

And inwardly, I wrestled with guilt and confusion, asking God why something so sacred could also feel so foreign. But even in the heaviness, I sensed Him near. He has been gentle, patient, and present in the unseen work of my healing.

Writing this helped me put language to what I couldn’t quite say out loud yet. It became a prayer, a process, and a quiet reminder that love isn’t always a feeling—it’s often a choice, a steady unfolding.

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She doesn’t get her curls from me.

I wish she did.

I wish I had voluminous ringlets cascading down my shoulders, just like hers will be when she’s older, but I don’t.

Every time someone comes up to us to smile and say hello, like at church or in the grocery store, it’s the first thing they mention: “Look at those curls!” they say.

And I smile back. At least on the outside.

On the inside, I wince because it’s just another reminder of the gaping chasm I sometimes believe exists between my daughter and me. Because there are days when I question if our so-called mother-daughter connection is even there.

I have long, straight, dark brown hair, weathered by the hardship of adulthood. It used to be curly.

Oh yes, I used to laugh and run against the wind, my long curly waves flowing right behind me. However, the thing about adulthood is that, eventually, the cold, bitter reality of life starts to weigh you down. What once felt like bliss now feels like despair. What once brought joy now brings grief. And what was once curly has now become straight.

Where do her curls come from, you ask? I have no idea. She’s likely gotten them from my mother or my sister, two women of boldness who I know often have no fear. Meanwhile, I often find myself off somewhere, scrounging in a corner.

I suppose what I’m trying to say is that my daughter is braver than me. I’m filled with pride, yet it’s a gut punch to the stomach when I think about it. She climbs and laughs, and explores with her imagination in a way I wish I could. She loves with the intensity of the sun. She doesn’t shrink back when she asks for what she wants. She’s independent. Boy, is she independent.

*More, more* she signs to me in baby ASL. Her eyes sparkle when she does. She asks for more with such fiery excitement. When was the last time I asked for more out of my own life? I try, but every time I do, I get a lump in my throat.

I picture her running up ahead. I can see her growing up to be someone who lives with reckless abandon. Someone who doesn’t hold back. Someone who is a bold witness to the truth of the Gospel. I can see her becoming the woman I wish I could be.

Despite what I may feel about the supposed distance between us, being her mother awakens something within me. When I’m with her, it’s like new life fills my soul, I feel myself becoming full, a cup brimming with water—I’m overflowing. She makes me believe that I, too, can be brave.

So no, she may not get her curls from me. All I know is that she’s my daughter, and no one can take that away.

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If you’d like to support my work, you can fuel my next creative session with a refreshing glass of lemonade, which would be deeply appreciated. 🍋

As always, I’m grateful you’re here.