When your child is born, they bring with them your hopes, dreams, and fears. The moment that tiny person makes their entrance into the world, all the theoretical proclamations you once made about what you would or wouldn’t do as a parent stop being abstract. It’s suddenly very real. You either put your money where your mouth is, stand firm in your convictions, or—if you’re wise—pivot and admit that you didn’t know jack shit about raising a baby when you had no baby to raise.
My kids are mostly grown now, the youngest already fifteen, but I can still remember the fears I carried for each of them—some as early as their first ultrasound. As a first-time, unwed mother, I worried that my eldest would inherit the stigma of being born out of wedlock and resent me, or worse, resent herself. With my second child, I feared she would feel overshadowed by her older sister, a wound my own younger sister often reminded me of until I finally left home and gave her the space to become her own person. When I had my son, my fear shifted outward: the danger of a policeman’s pistol, a chokehold, a knee to the neck. And when my youngest daughter’s first-trimester scan suggested she had Down syndrome, I was asked if I wanted to consider “termination options.” I didn’t, and instead my fear became whether I could be a good enough mother to a child with special needs. By some mix of grace, luck, and sheer stubbornness, none of those fears came to pass. Other challenges arose, of course, but the children have come through mostly unscathed—except in one place I could never protect them: matters of the heart.
When you bring a baby home, you are supplied with tools to ensure their physical wellbeing: a thermometer to make sure their temperature never creeps above 99.5 degrees, brand-name wipes and diapers, formula if your milk supply runs low. A good nursing team—I had the best at Northside—will tell you to hold your baby often and as long as you both need, to build a bond. My husband and I did just that. Because of it, I believe my children know on a cellular level that they are loved. I’m convinced that steady, loving touch helped keep their immune systems strong and their nervous systems regulated. Beyond the normal bouts of childhood infections, they stayed healthy. Still, every parent longs to take away a child’s pain—whether it’s a fever, a stubbed toe, or something far worse—and carry it themselves. Yet no one at Northside Hospital, or any birthing center for that matter, sends you home with instructions on how to treat heartbreak. What do you do when the person your child trusted with their love suddenly vanishes? There’s no care packet for that.
Earlier this spring, my daughter told me she had started dating someone. She was nervous to share the news, though I assured her I was happy for her. It’s normal—and healthy—to have a boyfriend at her age. Still, I whispered a silent prayer: “God, ancestors, please protect my baby from the pain of heartbreak.” But as someone who falls in love easily and deeply, heartbreak is no stranger to me, and it seems God and the OGs didn’t get my message. Four months later, the boy broke up with her.
In the five months they had known each other, he decided she had become “someone else,” someone he no longer recognized. My daughter was devastated. I was horrified. What he really wanted, I learned, was what men have demanded of women for centuries: that she shrink, silence herself, remain a shell, become smaller for his comfort. In that light, I was grateful for the breakup. But gratitude doesn’t dissolve the ache of a shattered heart. Her pain was raw and palpable, coming through in clipped texts and long, tearful phone calls. Like the fevers they endured as infants, I knew I couldn’t cure this one. The infection of heartbreak has to run its course.
The physical distance has made this harder, I feel. Holding her through her hurt is not an option. All I could do was tell her what might come next. That the pain would surge, but she must not let it drown her. That she would have her “bad girl” phase, blasting old-school hip hop, waving a proverbial middle finger to this boy, fury giving her strength. That she would circle back to longing, to missing him—until one day, she wouldn’t. One day, he would be a memory (some parts fond and others not so), a cautionary tale to share with other young women, perhaps even her own daughters.
“When will that be?” she asked me.
“I don’t know, my love,” I said softly. “There’s no formula for heartbreak.”