Halfway through a rare, luxurious 90-minute call with my beautiful, beloved daughter Arayla Grace this morning—who is 20 years old now and blossoming on her uniquely soul-driven path 2,500 miles away from me—she shared casually that a few weeks ago, she had suddenly felt compelled to sit down and read everything I’ve ever written.

What? I was shocked.

She said that for over four hours, she found herself plummeting down a rabbit hole of my writings—going back as far as 12 years ago(!) — on my blog, and essays I’d published back in the day on HuffPost.

How she had laughed and cried reading my words, and felt so lucky to know that I’m her Mom. That she understood things about me, and about herself and her childhood, that she hadn’t known before she read those pieces.

My daughter clearly had no idea what a gift it would be to hear this from her at this time.

Sharing all this with sweet nonchalance—almost like an unsentimental afterthought— “Oh by the way, Mom…” with no sense of how her reflections would land as medicine not only for my Mama heart, but for the tender, hesitant heart of the Writer within me.

Arayla didn’t know how much I’ve been struggling to find my way back to the written words, since cautiously opening up the channel again after three years of silence.

Fumbling to know what’s really true to say now, given everything.

Distracted in moments by narratives of comparison, insecurity, and perfectionism. Frozen in moments by what’s broken still—grieving still—in my wildly humbled heart.

And there it was: the most sacred affirmation and encouragement to write that I could ever wish to hear from Life—spoken casually over FaceTime, from the lips of my very own precious girl.

In a culture that equates value with fame, and impact with quantity of followers, I’ve sometimes been comforted by the thought that if my words resonate with even one reader (just one!), it was more than worth it to write them.

But to imagine my words landing as medicine in the heart of my own daughter (?!), that’s a whole other purpose to aspire to.

Arayla Grace, every word I write for the rest of my days, I write for you.

(And I’ll expect regular, detailed, heartening reports from you on how much you enjoy them. Just kidding! No pressure to ever read another word, my love. At least not while I’m still alive. ;-))

Just know that you—just as you are—are my answered prayer.

I love you beyond words, beyond measure, beyond all concepts of space and time, beyond any role or story or lifetime we’ve lived. Beyond all form, all knowing… simply, endlessly. My love!

And I’m so unspeakably proud of who you are—and of all your fiercely radiant individuation and independence, and how bravely and boldly you follow your gorgeous heart—that it almost makes up for how desperately I miss having you close. (Almost. :-))

Thank you for somehow knowing just what to say today(!)—to annihilate all my second thoughts, reorient my intention for expression, and ground my perspective in what matters most.

And to the rest of you—I’m honoring wherever this simple tale might touch resonance within your own being.

I’m curious… could this somehow serve as your own Daughter Mirror? In the heart of the parent, or the grown child, or the one who longs to offer something authentic and real to our world—

To any part of us that struggles with relevance, wrestles with worthiness, or reckons with the tender mystery of what makes our expression meaningful at all.

What if we can’t know the true impact of our love in this world? What if that not-knowing is part of the holy design— honestly none of our business?

I didn’t write those pieces with the foresight that one day my daughter, as a young woman, might find clues and keys in them—about her mom, her childhood, and herself.

But now, through the lens she gave me, it’s clear: Every true instinct we follow to bring our voice forward somehow serves. It serves in ways we can’t predict or measure or begin to understand.
Even the seemingly smallest offering can ripple outward in ways we’ll never fully know.

Here’s to Love’s mirror—and the exquisite timing with which it sometimes arrives, reminding us of the holy point. Calling us forward to speak, to write, to give—in whatever way we are called to.

Come what may. Come what may! 💖