Sometimes, a piece you’ve written stays with you—not just because of what it captured, but because of what it still carries.
This poem began as a reflection on the moment I first held my daughter. But yesterday, on her 40th birthday, I wanted to revisit it—not to rewrite the past, but to reframe it. To speak not only to the newborn I once cradled, but to the woman she’s become.
The story is still the same. But the meaning runs deeper now.
Still Held
Forty years ago today, I met you for the first time.You arrived three weeks early—impatient, it seemed, even then to begin.
I was 24—young and idealistic. I didn’t yet understand how a single moment could upend everything I thought I knew—before you, and after.
I remember being overwhelmed—joy, relief, awe, and something quieter I didn’t yet have words for.A nurse pointed me to the paper towel dispenser. I drifted over, still watching you—the tiny someone who had just shifted my gravity.
When I returned to your side, I was trailing half a roll behind me. Everyone laughed. So did I.But even then, I sensed it: some bonds don’t break. They just change shape.
Looking back, I feel such tenderness for the man I was in that moment.I didn’t know how quickly certain seasons would vanish.I didn’t know how deeply I’d miss the moments I never captured.I didn’t know how few memories you’d have with my dad—how much I’d wish I’d preserved.
But here’s what I know now—what I want you to carry today:
You were loved from your very first breath.Not with a love that flickers, but one that holds steady—rooted, growing, here.
You’ve lived through things I never could have imagined in that hospital room.You’ve broken and rebuilt. Faltered and found your footing.Quietly. Fiercely. And through it all, you’ve become someone I am endlessly proud of.
Life hasn’t made it easy. But you’ve met it with grit, with depth, with that quiet power that’s always been yours.You are more resilient than you know.You always have been.
We were ready for you from the start—hopeful, grounded, and fully present.And while time has stretched and tested the bond between us, it never frayed.
At the other end of that cord—always—was someone who would be there.Still is.
Here’s the poem I wrote for you.Just a small moment. But one I’ve carried for forty years.
The Cords That Bind
You were early to this worldThree weeks earlyKnowing you nowI feel that you wereimpatient to get going
Nothing prepares youfor how parenthood feelsAs the midwife weighedand measured youI took in your perfection
My tears of joy and reliefthreatened to become a floodNoticing, a nurse took my arm“Paper towels are over there,” she saidPointing to a wall-mounted dispenser
My vision was so blurryThat it seemed to take a whilefor me to reach themBut it was probably more thatI couldn’t stop looking at you
Returning to the bedsideI was met with laughterAfter the earlier anxietyOf your rushed deliveryIt felt so very welcome
Failing to notice that the paper towelwas one long continuous rollI was still connected to the dispenserAnd just for a momentI had my own umbilical cord
Stories that linger. Moments that shape us. Subscribe for more reflections on love, memory, and the threads that bind us.
