By Hannah Brencher
@hannahbrencher

I rest my fingers against the keyboard as I pause from the work in front of me to listen to my husband talking to our 7-month old daughter downstairs.

I can close my eyes and know exactly where he is in our living room. He’s sitting on the big couch-- the one we bought to be a ministry to visitors who needed a place to land. She’s sitting in the middle of his folded legs. She’s wearing her pajamas, her hair still awry from sleep.

I can see him holding her hands and looking her straight in the eyes as he begins their morning ritual.

“You are little but you are well-loved,” he begins. “You are growing. You are strong. You are capable.”

He speaks these gentle words over her every single day like clockwork. Now she’s only seven months so I am sure the words don’t mean much yet but I like to imagine they’re permeating deep within her spirit. That they’re building a strong shield inside of her, one she will need for later days when the world tries to label her and tell her who she ought to be.

Ought to be.  

I was 26 years old and battling a life-threatening depression when the narratives I believed about myself were forced to change. I was bone-tired from fighting my way through what felt like dark, unending woods. Waking up was a fight. Taking a shower was a fight. Putting on a sweater and showing up for the day was a fight.

I’d reached the end of myself. I was torn down by the constant pressure to be more… to do more… to improve myself … to stay on top. I was fueled by what other people thought of me until that way of thinking would no longer suffice. It would be the very thing that caused the foundation to crumble. It would leave me on the floor, realizing I could not use the same pieces that had shattered to put myself back together again. I would have to build something new.

It was Christmas Eve. I was sitting by the light of the tree decorated in vintage bulbs when a thought swept through me:

I need a better anthem. I need to fight my way through this mess.

Depression was stamping an identity upon me. That I was not enough. That I was too much. That I would never move forward. And those lies it was hissing into my ear were sticking. They were becoming beliefs. They were leaving me helpless to fight my way out of the woods.

I immediately got up from the chair, grabbed the keys off the countertop, and drove down to the convenience store just a mile away. I bought a 2-pack of black composition notebooks and silver Sharpies. Back at home, I pulled the notebooks from their plastic wrap and opened one to the first fresh page.

There, in that notebook, I began to write notes to my one-day daughter. I imagined that if I ever had a daughter then there would be certain truths I would want her to know. I would want her to know how strong and capable she is. I would want her to know that God is present. I would want her to dig deep and tap into what’s already inside of her: the strength to keep going when life throws you down.

I poured my heart out into the pages of that notebook, day after day, and I felt my demeanor began to slowly shift in a new direction. I wasn’t instantly made better, but I realized these words were for me, just as much as they were for a someday daughter of mine.

I deserved to cloak myself in words just as strong as these.

I was worthy of fighting forward “just because”… I didn’t need to become someone different or be a better version of myself before showing up for this fight. 

The fight was mine and I was ready to tap in.

 ***

I don’t know where I got the idea from but I assumed motherhood would make me naturally secure in myself. That somehow the hands of the clock would bring me to a mystical juncture where what people thought of me just didn’t matter anymore.

Stepping over the threshold and into motherhood didn’t change those things for me. My speech didn’t become softer. The view of myself didn’t become more grace-filled.

Having a daughter of my own—one who will inevitably grow up with a certain set of standards constantly being slipped into her back pocket—only made me more aware of the half-hearted and superficial anthems I still held onto for myself.

I realize I don’t just need these fight songs when I am in the midst of the storm. I need them for everyday life. For the mundane and the simple. For the times I am tempted to think I don’t need to go to battle for my worth because, it is then, that lies sneakily creep in and take up residence within me.

I wish I could give my daughter a mother who is pumped full of confidence—so sure of her space in the world. If I’m not there yet then I can show her the practice of getting there. Of filling myself up so that I can go out there and be light to others. Of finally releasing the “ought to be” for the great “what really is.”

I can show her the better missions—the ones worth showing up for. I can teach her to write her own fight songs for the days when she finds herself lost in the deep, dark woods. 

I can show her the nitty-gritty that comes with examining the things you’ve believed about yourself. The limiting stories. The lies you’ve allowed and even entertained. I can show her it is never too late to start writing better anthems for herself.

It’s a constant, daily choice to choose truth over lies. To speak love when fear so easily pours out. To cloak words with grace rather than criticism. But my girl slips me sweet reminders of why this work of clearing out the lies matters.

With every new smile, I am reminded.

With every new babble, I am reminded.

With every new glimpse of her discovering herself-- her fingers, her lips, her reflection-- I am reminded that once upon a time I felt this free. I want to keep her thinking she is brave and capable for as long as I can.

One day soon, the world will begin to try and speak the limiting stories into her heart. Smart. Pretty. Kind. Bossy. Skinny. Nice. I won’t be able to shield her from those stories coming at her from every angle.

But not yet. Not right now.

For now, I hold her as she falls asleep and I whisper the gentlest of words into her ear. I whisper the words I want her to know are true: You, my dear, are a fight song all on your own.

These words are true for her. These words are true of me.

Guest essay written by Hannah Brencher. Hannah is an author, writer, and online educator. She is the author of "Fighting Forward" and "Come Matter Here." She lives in Atlanta, Georgia with her husband Lane and baby girl Novalee.

Photo by Lottie Caiella.