To my daughter on her 21st birthday

To my daughter on her 21st birthday #

Dear Miriro,

This is your dad, Panashe. I wanted to write to you about us, and about what it is we’re doing here. Some context setting is in order: As I wrote this, you turned 7 months old today. I chose to address a far-future version of you.

This “being a father” thing is something that I’m figuring out. That’s a funny phrase, isn’t it? Does there ever come a point where it’s “figured out”? I think there’s constant flux and evolution. What I hope to do is to reveal more of my deeper self, through my relationship with you. As I type this with my eyes closed and think about you, I feel warm golden strands running up and down my torso – my whole body is smiling.

So let me start by thanking you. Even at this early stage, I know that you’ll be the greatest teacher I ever haved. In the time since this letter, you’ve undoubtedly shown your pops how to give and receive love, how to assert his boundaries without losing connection, how to find the play in every moment, and untold qualities that I’m not yet privy to. You’ve shown me how to lead, and how to steward a young person’s life. You reshaped my ambitions. It would be an understatement to say that raising you changed my life.

The love that a dad feels for his young daughter is kind of unreal. It’s like you were born with root access to my heart. Your smile when you first see me every morning sets my soul on fire. Being with you is an honor, and I feel dignified to get to hold you, to change your diapers, to play with you, to hold you as you cry. As I write this, you can roll over and spin yourself around. Soon you’ll be able to crawl, and move towards what draws you. Not long after you’ll be walking, and begin stepping into your independence. Then you’ll run, as your enthusiasm rushes through you on sunny days. Finally, you’ll soar towards your potential, as you begin to realize what you want in the world. In this moment, I have no idea what that will look like, but I’m excited to be your companion for every step of your journey.

I want you to know that you are loved, but I want you to know much more than that. You are not only loved, you are a pure manifestation of love itself. I want you to know that I tried my best, and I did the best that I could. I hope that I’ve forgiven myself for all of the ways that I failed you. That way, I can have the space to accept any forgiveness that you might have for me. As you grow, I want to be a trusted mirror reflecting your inherent goodness.

By the time you read this, you’ll definitely have broken my heart a few times over the years, and I’ll have done the same for you. I don’t know yet what that will be about, but I do know that I can’t wait to experience heartbreak with you. I hope that when you break my heart, it breaks wide open – the better to love you with. I hope we see that we can love each other through our imperfection and our disappointment, and our love emerges stronger for it. I hope that I’m awake, alive, and attentive to all the lessons that you’ll have for me.

I think about what it would mean for me to have been “successful” as a dad by the time you’re reading this. Am I successful if you have a prestigious job, got into elite colleges, or are setting up to have a family of your own? I think this is how we’re often conditioned to view parenting in the West, in a goal-oriented fashion, pushing our kids to achieve something. Parents invest a lot of ego into our kids, and project what we think will make us happy onto them. To be clear, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with the things I listed, and I want you to have them, provided you want them for yourself. But none of that resonates with me. My greatest hopes for you are that you have a good relationship with yourself, and that I have a good relationship with you.

When I talk about “your relationship with yourself”, what I mean is your internal relationship – how you relate to your body, your sensations, your emotions. I hope that you have the capacity to feel every moment, and not begin to dissociate from your body and your emotions in the way that’s so common in the Zimbabwean and American cultures you come from. To feel your feelings, and not shut them out. To take yourself seriously. To know what you want.

When I set out to write this letter, I thought of all the things that I might teach you. What I came to realize as I wrote it was that you already are all of these things. I think my job as your steward is to continue to nurture and ensure the survival of these qualities in you. Thank you for the opportunity.

Love,

Daddy