A letter I won’t give you, but needed to write
You told me to go away.
And so I did —
even though every part of me wanted to stay.
To hold you for just one second longer.
To tuck the loose strand of hair behind your ear.
To promise you that it was okay to be scared.
That I was scared too.
But you didn’t want comfort.
Not today.
You were already holding yourself together so tightly,
and you knew that if I stayed —
if I cried,
if I kissed your forehead one more time —
you might unravel.
So you braced yourself.
And you said the words:
“Just go.”
And my heart shattered a little.
Not because you were unkind,
but because you were being so brave
it hurt to witness.
Now I sit in the quiet,
the silence echoing with your name,
wondering if you’re okay.
If you’ve eaten.
If someone was kind to you.
If you’re laughing now, forgetting the fear you wore like a coat this morning.
You don’t know this yet,
but letting you go like that
was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.
And yet I did it —
because I love you more than my own comfort.
Then hours later —
there you were.
Grinning, wild, helmet on, cheeks flushed with sun and pride.
No fear in sight.
Just joy. Just you.
You weren’t thinking about being brave anymore.
You simply were.
And in that moment,
my heart stitched itself back together a little.
Because you didn’t just survive the day.
You rose into it.
You told me to go —
but what you were really saying was:
“Watch me fly.”
And I did.
And I always will.
And if you ever wonder —
if you ever doubt —
know this:
I was proud of you before you even stepped onto the coach.
Proud of you when your lip trembled but you stood still.
Proud of you when you zipped up your coat with shaking hands.
Proud of you when you told me to go, even though I know it broke your heart too.
I am so proud of you, little star.
Not because you were fearless —
but because you were scared,
and still —
you flew.