If I had a daughter I would give her these notes, but as I am far from such an event or may never have kids of my own, I must learn to love myself as I would a daughter–as my mother did me.
Advice for myself, my friends, my family, my nieces, graduates, and everyone else:
1) If you do not want hair in your face, hold your head high.
Looking down at the ground, while it helps to keep you from falling, hinders your ability to see the world you're walking through. And, by the laws of physics, your hair will fall in your face.
2) Try to begin each day by stepping outside.
Wake up, revel or grieve in the fact that you're still alive (whichever you're partial to), walk outside, even if just for a moment. Doing so will let you know what the weather is like so you know what to wear, begin your daily intake of vitamin D, and (bonus!) you get to experience the world you were created for, so even if your day is crap-tastic, you've had that moment with our Earth.
3) Dream big, but don't forget that achieving big dreams requires a lot of work.
Passion can get you far, very far, but especially in this world of increasly short attention spans you may lose focus. Forgive yourself and know that if it is a true passion it will flair again and you will continue working towards your goals.
4) You are always making memories.
This was the advice my mother always gave me. I believe it works on multiple levels... how do you want others to remember you, how do you want to remember yourself, how do you want to remember certain moments? Regret is real and is hard to overcome and usually occurs when we ruminate on a memory or a set of memories, so be aware and keep this in your mind.
5) If you want to be a positive force for all, even those going through hard times, prepare to be vulnerable.
My biggest regret in life so far has been my lack of emotional support for my mother during her final months. I believed that to be strong meant to be a rock– hold your head high no matter what. So in the days when my mother would come to me, despaired about the tumors, her fears, her losses, I would barely hug her, knowing that if I let her in too much, I would break and I needed to maintain composure. I did not cry with her when she told me she knew 19 was too young to lose a mother. I did not hold her hand in the doctors office when she got the news that nothing was working. I did not share with her my despair that the cancer had spread to her brain– I stared at the computer screen in the hospital room barely looking at her, knowing if I did I would crack. I was a rock. I know my reasons were noble: I didn't want to add to her stress, feeling responsible for her baby's grief, but I missed out on invaluable moments of connection and support, revelry in the despair of love.
I have then noticed as I have been grieving that many view help during hard times similarly to how I viewed it, being a rock. "Stick that chin up, it'll get better, look at the positives" they say. All these are nice to say, but to be vulnerable with another person is to show them how truly okay it is for them to feel how they feel and it fosters a deep connection and breeds empathy.
To be strong, often, is to be vulnerable.
(For the most part I have forgiven myself for these regrets, but they still remain lessons learned the hard way.)
More to come, I'm sure.
P.S. Prudent Advice: Lessons for My Baby Daughter is now a book. A wonderful bathroom read, a book to keep with you for those moments of public boredom, or for when you are just feeling low.
