To my daughter on her twelfth birthday

Dear Audyn,

On a cold, cloudy day in early February 2009, I woke wondering if this would be your day. Three days overdue, I felt heavy and exhausted, but I packed up your sister and waddled to our weekly moms/play group at a local church. Half-way through the motivational mom lecture, you were finally ready. You arrived quickly, without incident, entirely on your own time table. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Go! It makes me laugh to think of it now, because that is exactly how you still are. You will not be rushed when you are not ready. But once you are ready, look out world. Here she comes! This little quirk of yours drove me nuts when you were three and Every. Little. Thing was a battle. Truly. It almost killed us. I have never been so undone by a toddler. Then a five-year-old. And even an eight-year-old. I got a lot of advice from a handful of well-meaning folks, who usually offered their words of wisdom before they saw you in action. Once they did, I commonly heard, “Oh. I get it now.” Though the battles were fierce, I held on to the belief that someday what would bloom within you would be the valuable character traits of an independent girl—determination, perseverance, conviction. I’m sure glad I was right. 😉

On Feb. 3, you turned twelve. It seems like ages ago, with all that has happened since. A month behind as usual, I started your birthday letter in early March. You asked me about it. “Mom, are you done yet?” Because now you want to read the letters I’ve been writing to you all these years. I got a little nervous; I wanted it to be good. But most of all I wanted it to be true.

Then spring break rolled around and you broke your leg skiing. That event upended your world and my good intentions. The letter, among other activities, was put on hold in order to navigate this new challenge. I’ve watched (sometimes helplessly) as you have faced the physical and emotional complexities that came with it. I’ve wanted to “fix it” countless times, but I’ve also observed in awe your quiet courage in the face of adversity.

I’ve broken plenty of bones in my life, and they were a hassle, to be sure, but they pale in comparison to the difficulty of a broken leg. The pain is different. The challenges to mobility are greater. The patience required to heal demands, well, determination, perseverance, and conviction. I’ve watched you grapple with three things in particular that have also taught me a little more about who you are.

First, you’ve had to ask for a lot of help. This is not something you enjoy. By nature, you are a helper, a quiet leader that comes alongside others to support and encourage with compassion and empathy. Many of us who enjoy helping others are terrible at asking for that help ourselves when we need it.

Second, you’ve gotten a lot of attention. This is also something you typically don’t enjoy, even when it’s positive. You’re not one to jump into the spotlight; instead, you prefer to spotlight others, championing your brother’s hard-won accomplishments, admiring your sister when she shines. You love to receive a quiet compliment delivered just to your ears, but prefer there to be no loud announcements on your behalf. Cruising the hallways of middle school in a wheelchair is not your preference. I know you’d rather be the one pushing a friend in need from behind.

Third, you can’t move. And you are a mover. Both in the physical sense and the figurative one. You’ll sit still as long as your hands are tinkering (I’ve watched you take apart, rebuild, and create some pretty cool stuff), but otherwise, you’re up and at ‘em. When I can’t figure out how to fix something, you’re the one to call for help. The other day, the leg extension on your wheelchair got stuck and you wiggled yourself down under it, thigh-high cast and all, to see how the mechanics of it worked, named the problem, and quickly informed me it was a job for Dad’s tools. On the one hand, forced stillness has been a challenge. On the other, your problem-solving mind has found lots of ways around it. At dinner, your wheelchair swishes back and forth at the table giving you the movement you crave—so much so that I’ve gotten a little seasick watching it out of the corner of my eye as I eat. Of course, that probably says more about my weak stomach than your need to move.

Twelve was the birthday we planned to take you on your own trip. When Emelyn turned 12, we took her to New York City. From the moment the three of us returned home from that adventure, you started dreaming of your own birthday trip, not sure where we might take you, but sure it would be special—because it would be just for you with no siblings in tow. Quality time is one of your love languages, and the prospect of this trip meant a lot to you.

Then. Covid happened. You saw the writing on the wall before your birthday even arrived. You weathered that disappointment as you weather many disappointments in your life: with mild protest and quiet rumination. And then you put on that Pollyanna face—the half smile matched with a half shrug. “It’s okay,” you conceded. “We’ll still do it.” But I know you were sad, because the trip still comes up from time to time. I’m not sure if you’re still processing the let down or just reminding us it’s still on the horizon when we’re all free to move about again.

I am really looking forward to that day.

What does all this say about who you are at twelve? At this age, you’re probably better equipped to fill us in than any birthday letter can. Still. There’s value in hearing what others see in you. You’re compassionate—as ever. Focused—as ever. Independent—as ever. Creative—as ever. And, experimental.

At twelve, I see you working to figure out who you are. Are you like your big sister? Like your brother? Are you like Mom? Or like Dad? Dad calls us twins—we share a physical resemblance for sure. We also share similar temperaments…and tempers—we fire up quickly, but we forgive quickly, too. The best we can hope is that others will quickly forgive our occasionally fiery natures. The good thing about big feelings, though, is that they also produce an empathic nature—you’re good at putting yourself in others’ shoes and understanding their view of the world. As a result, you have a low tolerance for meanness and injustice, as much when it’s directed at others as when it’s directed at you.

Audyn, one thing is for certain. What I see makes me so grateful I get to be your mom. You hold within your nature the best of your Dad and hopefully a little something good from me. But you are also so clearly your own unique person, a gift to those of us who get to call you ours and who get to be called yours. We count it all joy. Onward together. Birthdays. Trips. And all the moments in between.

Happy Birthday, Little Pip.