To My Daughter, Turning 18

All the things I can think to say are the same things that have been said by millions of mothers throughout time.

It has gone so fast.

I remember the day you were born.

I can't believe my baby is grown up.

These ideas are tenacious because they are true; but the endless repetition has stripped them of their depth of meaning. We hear the words, and we recognize the sentiment, but the enormity of the emotions I'm feeling right now is lost in our familiarity with the phrases.

So instead of searching for new words to describe these universal ideas, I will tell a story. This is the story of me raising my child.

The moment I found out I was going to have you, my only thought was

I'm not ready for this.

I was 23. I was barely able to responsibly take care of myself; I had no idea about how to be an adult. I had no confidence in my ability to care for something as important as a child. I was so scared. I HAD JUST KILLED AN ALOE PLANT FOR FUCK'S SAKE.

Time went on, and I became more comfortable with my upcoming new role in life. I did prenatal-safe exercise like water aerobics. I ate healthy food. I avoided anything that could hurt you, all the way down to caffeine. Taking care of my body became important to me, because it was by direct proxy taking care of yours. I read everything I could get my hands on about pregnancy and infant care and parenting. I vomited a lot. Seriously, I vomited for nine months.

But gastronomical issues aside, it was an amazing nine months. I was fascinated whenever I would feel you move. I giggled when you got the hiccups (when the doctor told me that was what those tiny spasms in my belly were, it was the cutest thing that had ever happened on the planet). I thrilled at how you would kick and move when I played my horn. I talked to you. I sang to you. I began to understand just how much I already loved you.

Then, on the morning of August 14, 1996, I held you in my arms and looked into your eyes for the first time. And I fell more deeply in love than I could have ever imagined.

You were not the only one born in that room at that moment. Your Mother was also born. I was no longer merely the woman called Nena; I was something so much more. I was Your Mother.

I whispered in your ear. The first thing you heard outside of the womb was my voice telling you your True Name. Did you ever know that I did that? You have a name that only you and I know. It was a very hippie, new-agey thing for me to do. But I wanted us to have something special, something no one else in the world shared, right from the very beginning.

And, as it so relentlessly does, time continued to move forward. You ate; you pooped; you cried; you slept. You held my heart in your tiny hands. I fed you, cleaned you, held you, read to you, sang to you, and watched you grow. In the blink of an eye, you were smiling; laughing; making sounds; walking; speaking; drawing; reading; counting; writing; going to school; discovering favorite stories, tv shows, songs, and toys; finding your talents; establishing friendships; experiencing heartbreak; enduring pain; finding your passions; driving; dating...

Graduating.

Turning 18.

Leaving home.

I have watched you wave goodbye and had to let go so many times already. I remember all the letting-gos: the first time I dropped you off at preschool; your first day of kindergarten; the first time you rode the school bus; your first sleepover at a friend's; your first summer camp; your first rave; your first date; the first time you drove somewhere on your own.

Your graduation.

And now, adulthood. Today I let go of the child, and embrace my adult daughter. And very soon I will wave a very big goodbye as I watch you drive away with your things, leaving the nest of your childhood home and beginning to build a life of your own. It will be the most difficult moment of my life. And also one of the proudest.

I know that this is what is supposed to happen. This is the desired outcome. You have grown up. That is what children do.

But I have to admit, I am so scared. I am scared of not knowing whether you are safe. Or hurting. I am scared of not knowing if you are getting enough sleep. Or eating right. I'm scared of not knowing when you are home safe at night. I'm scared of not seeing you often. I'm scared of my new role as a supporting character in your story.

But my story of raising my child has come to an end, and it is time for a new story. It is time for you to tell your own story. I hope with all my heart that it is exactly the story you want it to be. And I hope that I am always a part of it. Words are not adequate to illustrate how intensely and purely I love you. My entire life is you, and I am so grateful for the story you have given me.

And as many good stories do, my story has come full circle; because in closing, my only thought is

I'm not ready for this.

On Suicide

Today, we lost someone who gave laughter, deep thought, and joy to many people.

Robin Williams was an American comedian and actor who was dearly beloved by nearly all of my generation, as well as the generations before and after mine.

He was timeless.

Even the people who parodied him and made fun of him realized that they were making fun of something that may have been utterly absurd and mockable; yet it still drew people in and made them laugh. Robin had a style. Sometimes his style was the result of being incredibly high and having no sense of stream of consciousness; but it was still always his own style. He could be imitated, but never replicated. He was very, literally, unique.

I followed Robin's struggle for years. I was always very interested when he submitted to rehab; was released and considered clean; was being treated for mental illnesses such as depression or anxiety; was given a clean bill of health.

I paid attention to his comedy during these different reported phases of his life. I knew that the media couldn't know exactly when these things were actually happening (counseling, rehab, psychiatric treatment, etc.), but they gave me as much of a timeline as I could have as an outsider. And I saw the patterns. And I understood them. I understood them so terribly well.

I knew Robin was going to do this.

I didn't know when. I didn't know how. But I saw very clearly the tortured man he was.

Robin loved his family. He loved his wife, his exes, his children. He wanted a clean, happy way to connect with them, and he could not find it. His life became unmanageable, and the things that were most important to him were out of reach. He loved his career, but it was secondary to his family, and yet it was requiring all his time. And even when he took a break, he found that the disconnect had become too vast.

I understand his decision.

Sometimes, even when you have a good life, there is pain that is too much to endure. Sometimes you realize that you are never going to be able to provide the comfort and happiness to those you love that you so very much want to give. Sometimes, you realize that you have fulfilled your evolutionary requirement, and you are done.

Sometimes it is not selfish.

And those of us who are hurt and distressed by the decision need to just shut the fuck up with the judgement. Yes, we are hurt. It is ok to be hurt, and it is ok to be angry. But let's stop with the judgement and the name calling. We have no way to know how much pain he was feeling. This was Robin's life. This was his decision. He owed nothing to you.

Nothing.