I have a daughter who is forty years younger than me. She lives in Peru, travels in jungles and deserts, speaks Spanish, and loves being in love. She also writes. Words drip from her fingers like rain from a leaf, each one clear, fresh and capable of supporting life.
Regardless, I think given our age difference, I tried to steer her towards a career that would give her financial independence. My belief was that knowing she could always pay her mortgage would provide her with a sense of freedom. Fortunately, with grace, my daughter ignored me and left for Lima to find her own freedom.
It has been truly scary at times for me, and for her – weeks without communication, reports of parasites, bike accidents, stolen wallets, visa complications and language mishaps. But, mostly her time away has made me understand that I have a daughter who is exceptionally strong with a streak of daring.
My daughter lives her life to the fullest. She studies and plays with a different language. She voices her opinion with her pen, now computer. She protests and advocates. She writes one perfect story after another with imaginary characters and soul bending plots. And she does all of this as if second nature, with an ease most writers spend years perfecting.
My daughter’s childhood ambitions to be a writer are no longer ambitions. She has become one. Her travels provide her with stories, insights and scenery. She lives for her passion and by doing so she understands, as I now do, that her life will never fit into the norm, the nine-to five or the corporate bubble. She does not need financial security to feel free. She does not need what I once needed.
My daughter has made me see that she is a grown woman with the extraordinary courage it takes to be herself. A mother’s pride is not strong enough to describe my reaction. I stand aside and smile.