What I Will Not Pass Down

To my daughter,

and to the daughters who will come from her,

if they do,

I leave many things.

I leave tenderness.

And fire.

And the sound of your name

spoken with reverence.

I leave the stories that made me.

And the ones I refused to let finish me.

I leave soft places to land.

But I will not leave

the silence.

I will not leave the instinct

to earn rest.

To apologize for taking up space.

To explain joy

or justify grief.

I will not leave the rule

that says love means disappearing.

Or that strength means not needing anyone.

I will not pass down

the ache of being everything to everyone

and nothing to yourself.

I have carried it.

I have broken under it.

I have survived it.

And now,

I set it down.

For myself.

And for you.

So you will carry on a new legacy.

Where you are free to do

and be whatever you want.

So my daughter,

let the hours be yours.

Let your body be yours.

Let your life be yours.

And when the world tries

to take pieces of you,

to shrink you,

soften you,

quiet you,

may something ancient in you rise up

and say no.

Absolutely not.

Not this time.

Not this girl.

Not again.

The Quiet Kind of Strong is a series of seven on inheritance, endurance, and the women who came before. The other parts live in the Still June archive.