Raising A Wild Child

Dear my wild one,

You, my boy, are a storm and a sunrise all at once.

At almost two years old, you already carry fire in your eyes and wonder in your hands. You don’t walk, you run, climb, leap, fall, and rise again without hesitation. You laugh loud, cry harder (send me prayers), love big, and live even bigger. And every day, I watch you, messy haired and barefoot, covered in dirt and joy and I know deep in my bones that you were born wild for a reason. The world will try to tame you. It will ask you to sit still, to quiet down, to be softer, smaller, easier to manage. But I won’t. Because I didn’t come here to raise a quiet boy.

I came here to raise a wildfire. I came here to raise a child who speaks his truth, even when his voice shakes. Who questions what doesn’t feel right. Who dances when there’s no music and laughs when no one else gets the joke. Who holds kindness like a sword and uses his wildness to protect what’s good.

You, wild one, were built to shake the ground and stir the sky. You were made to change things and to break things open and build something better. I will spend my days walking beside you, not to hold you back, but to make sure the world doesn’t put out your flame.

So run free, little wild heart. Be loud. Be curious. Be bold. Be exactly who you are, even when the world doesn’t understand it.

And when you’re older, and the world feels heavy, (because many times it will,) when your wild feels too big or too misunderstood, come home. I’ll remind you that you were never meant to fit in a box. You were never meant to be tamed. You were meant to lead.

I love every inch of your wild even if it means I get the stares and the judgy wide eyed astonishment when you are pushing limits. I love all of you.

Love always,

Mama