a series of tiny heartbreaks

It was due to a misunderstanding, nothing more. No grand attempt to squash a child’s creative spirit or make her fit into a too-small box. No systemic plan to marginalize her. No bullying, no unkind words. And yet, I just watched a tiny piece of my daughter get crushed. And I cried.

I was prepared to have my heart break for my children. To feel for their first broken heart, to ache with their skinned knees and bicycle crashes, to comfort them over loves lost, rejections real or perceived, and all the ups and downs of life. I was prepared for that. But I wasn’t expecting to have my heart break over a comment made by a teacher at school. A kind comment, nothing malicious or compartmentalizing. Watching my daughter’s face crumple when told there isn’t time this morning to share her book – the one she so carefully crafted, that she dictated to her father to write, that she illustrated, that she loved – I know it’s a small moment in her life. That she’ll be over it by tomorrow. That she needs to learn that she can’t always do what she wants when she wants. That there is a full classroom of children each with their own creation, their own desires, their own parents in the background.

And yet. I encouraged her to bring the book to share. I took time out of my day to help her read it to her class. I embraced her spirit, her strong sense of creativity, her passion to share what she knows and loves.

My heart broke, just a little.
It wasn’t the first time.
And I know it won’t be the last.