Things You Should Be Telling Your Kids

Dear Beth, age 6,

Come out from inside the closet. I know dad's yelling again, and you'll hear a lot more before things get silent, but there's some stuff I want to tell you.

First of all, get to know him. Try to look past how mad he makes you and how loud he is. He is broken. He is sad. It's no excuse for his crappy behavior, but you'll be stronger for it. Sit down and ask him a question. Find out his favorite memory, his favorite song, his favorite moment with you. It will be all you have left of him later.

Also, keep writing. You were made to do it. You were put on this earth to tell stories. Yours and other people's. Your voice, your words will make broken people feel whole. They'll make you whole. They'll steel you against disappointment and fear. It is who you are. Don't listen to anyone else. You are talented and smart and you have a destiny to begin fulfilling. So stand up.

I'm still in the process of creating our dream life, but I will create it. You will wake up one morning in your late 20s (or 30s, maybe) and feel lush sheets against your skin. Light will pour through open windows; the curtains will sway against the breeze in protest. This will be your home. Because it's the home I'm making for you now. It will have taken us awhile to get here -- we got a little lost. But we are resilience personified. We have fortress hearts and we figured it out.

You will walk your bare feet across creaky wooden floors in your loft apartment, nestled downtown in the middle of some average-sized city that you've settled down in. Your friends will be here. The family you've made will be here. There will be love in every room and you will feel it with each step. You'll brew coffee and roll up the sleeves of your husband's oversized button-down. He will love you. It will be good love. Trust it.

He'll go to work and you'll be sipping that brewed coffee out of your favorite mug, turning on your computer and reading the paper (there will still be a morning paper). Your desk and the wall in front of it will be plastered with your byline. Clips from Elle, small, independent presses, Time. Copies of your essays. Galleys of your book. There will be pictures of you at events, pictures with that kind, honest man who loves you. Pictures laughing with dear friends. It will be a life you're proud of. You will make it with your hands.

The road is long. Know this. And it hurts like fire. But it will also make you new. It will callous you in a way that will allow you to carry on despite the pits and bruises. Get off the floor, Beth. Get out of the closet. You won't serve the world by living small and afraid.

This is not your forever life. Your forever life is waiting for you out here. You will write. You will be full and happy. You will end up exactly where you're supposed to. People will remember your name. You'll drink at bars (easy on the whiskey) and talk in front of distinguished crowds who know your work. You will travel. You will meet amazing people. You will be a writer. You will be a satisfied, giving wife. You will be a phenomenal mother. You will be proud of the woman you turn out to be. She will be tender and strong. She will be lionhearted.


It's all here waiting for you.
Stand up.

Love,
Beth, age 26