I catch myself doing it too, but not in the usual damaging sense, not forcing him to live out my unlived dreams, not projecting my failures or trauma onto him, not getting angry just to keep control. For me, it’s more like a gentle reminder. A reminder that the world isn’t always harsh and cruel. That good things still happen. That just because my birthday was never made important doesn’t mean his won’t be. That because I know what it feels like to grow up without support, I will always show up for my son and his interests. Of course I correct when I need to, that’s part of any parenting, but at the core, I want him to know he is deeply loved. I want him to feel safe coming to me with anything, knowing I’ll listen without judgment and help however I can. I never want to be a stranger to him. I never want him to be afraid to approach me. I want him to know I celebrate him, that I’m grateful for him, because he saved me. He pulled me out of a place I had laid down and waved the white flag, while preparing to die. Raising him has been incredibly fulfilling in ways I didn't expect. I finally have a playmate, this sweet, curious little boy who notices the small things, who loves animals and music and learning. I get to be part of his life for as long as I’m alive, and if that’s not one of the biggest blessings from God, I don’t know what is. I don’t feel like I’m living through him in a way that takes anything away from him. It feels more like I’m finally living with something good, something gentle, something untouched by everything that hardened me too early. It’s not about making him into who I wish I could have been, or fixing my past through him. It’s about intentionally giving him what I know matters most because I lived without it. I want him to grow up knowing love isn’t conditional. That he doesn’t have to perform or earn it. That he can bring me his questions, his mistakes, his wildest ideas, and he’ll be met with patience and understanding instead of fear. I want him to feel seen in the smallest moments, his interests encouraged, his voice heard, his little joys celebrated like they’re the most important thing in the world. Because to him, they are. And in giving him that, something in me softens too. He reminds me that the world still holds curiosity, wonder, and sweetness without any hidden agenda. I get to witness it through him, but I don’t take it from him, I protect it. I guide him when he needs it, but never to control him, only to help him grow into himself safely and confidently. I never want to be someone he has to hide from or shrink around. I want to be his safe place, his steady ground, the person he trusts without hesitation. Loving him feels like the heaviest responsibility I’ve ever carried and, at the same time, the most unexpected, grace filled gift I never knew I needed. It reaches all those aching parts of me and softens them in ways I can’t quite explain, bringing light to places I had long stopped hoping would ever see it again. But it’s never been about using him to fill some hole inside me. It’s about making damn sure he never has to walk around with that same hollow ache I've carried for so long. He didn’t come into this world to rescue me. I know that. And yet, without even trying, he completely changed the direction of my life. He gave me something pure and untouchable to protect, something tender to nurture, something real to hold onto when everything else felt like it was slipping away. He became my anchor in the middle of the storm I thought would never end. The gratitude I feel for him runs so deep it feels almost.... holy, like something sacred placed gently in my hands that I’m terrified and honored to steward. I love you, my boy.
