Where Hope Enters In

Mother Daughter Hope

I’m 21 and pregnant and scared out of my mind. My doctor tells me that I have pulmonary hypertension and that the standard of care is to terminate my pregnancy. I can’t live without my baby, but I really don’t want to die. I do the only thing I know to do. I pray. My disease goes away and I’m going to live.

I’m 22 and deliver the most beautiful baby girl. She has red hair like her daddy and her grandpas, she is everything that is good and pure and right in this world, and I love her more than life itself.

I’m 22 and I take that baby home, and I’m suddenly terrified because I don’t know what to do with her. I don’t want to break her. I don’t want to harm her. I’ve been so focused on getting her into this world that I didn’t even think about how I would keep her safe once she was here. I am consumed with fear because I love this child so much, I can barely breathe. I am terrified I will do something that will hurt her, and I can’t bear it.

I’m 23 and I find out I’m pregnant again. I am completely undone because I cannot imagine loving another child as much as I love my miracle. I feel like to love another baby would be cheating on her and I am absolutely wrecked by the thought of her not feeling as loved as she is.

Mother Daughter Hope

I’m 37 and my daughter tells me she doesn’t want to exist. I don’t know what to say. It crushes me and I tell her. I don’t understand the pain she’s in and she’s not explaining it to me. I tell her I love her and can’t imagine life without her. I don’t know what else to say. I love her the only way I know how, and pray that’s enough.

I’m 42 and the world is ending and my strong-willed, hot-headed, quick-tempered first child refuses to use common sense. A pandemic is underway, and she insists on flying back to college where it is not safe, and the unknown is hanging precariously over her head. I want her to stay home where she is safe. Where the school has suggested she stay. Where the government has suggested she stay. She won’t have it. She leaves. The school shuts down, she has to leave, and I try to use tough love to show her there are consequences to her choices. I think this is a teaching moment.  It backfires in my face, and an even bigger wedge forms between us. I cannot figure out how we got here. Me and my baby girl with this mountain between us.

I’m 42 and my daughter is severely depressed. I pay for counselors, and doctor appointments, and medication. I try talking to her and listening, but she doesn’t share much. I have no idea how to help her and I feel as helpless and scared as I did the day I brought her home from the hospital. I am losing my daughter, and I don’t know how to stop it.

I’m 43 and I feel my daughter drifting away again. I don’t know how to talk to her about this without driving her further away. I know she already thinks of me as a helicopter mom. But I love her and want to be close to her and she keeps pushing away. I need her to know how much I love her and how much I want to be in her life. I know she’s hiding things, but she refuses to open up. She’s hiding from me and my heart breaks. She comes home for a short weekend in the fall and I don’t make fun of the nose ring or the purple hair. I love her how she is and I want her to know I always will.

I’m 43 and my daughter comes home for Christmas, and there is definitely something wrong. She’s barely present. It’s obvious that she doesn’t want to be here, and once again, my heart aches in a way she will never understand without being a mother, herself. The Rory to my Lorelai doesn’t want to be at home, and a piece of my heart dies. I think it’s because of her dad, but it’s not. I just don’t know that yet.

I’m 44 and my daughter’s birthday is coming up. We’ve had plans for months that I would come visit her. It should be better, just the two of us. No dad. No siblings. No house rules. Just us. Hanging out. I want to take her out for drinks, celebrate twenty-two years together. I can’t wait to see her. But she seems less and less into the idea as the days go by. I ask her if she wants me to come and she says no. I am devastated. I cry hard and long, and I tell her it’s okay but it’s not.

I’m 44 and I’m emailing my daughter because she will no longer accept my texts or my calls. She has told me that she doesn’t want me in her life. I wish my daughter would reconsider her angry words. I wish she would let me know her for who she is. I wish she would tell me the truth about her beliefs, about who she loves, and about how this journey has changed her. I wish she would reconsider removing me from her life and be brave enough to explore how we might love each other through this. I wish she had given me time to sit with the truth about who she is before she ripped herself away from me.

This is where Hope enters in.

Hope that things will not always be as they are now.

Hope that we will find our way back to each other.

Hope that love really does conquer all.

Hope for healing and restoration and grace.


This is where Hope enters in, when all seems lost.

When joy seems a lifetime away.

When motherhood is not at all what you thought it would be.

There is always Hope.