What I See in Her

When I look at my daughter, I see a woman who carries storms no one else can see — and still finds a way to rise. She has a gentle heart she tries to hide behind toughness, as if softness is something she needs to protect instead of something that makes her extraordinary. She thinks she’s hardened by life, but I know better. Underneath that armor is a tenderness most people never earn the right to see.

Her humour is sharp and dry, perfectly timed without effort. She’s never been the “tell a joke” type. Her wit isn’t a performance — it’s insight. It’s the kind of humour shaped by the home she grew up in: quick, knowing, a little sarcastic, and full of life.

She has done more with less.
She has climbed mountains with emotional weights tied to her ankles.
She lives with anxiety that steals her breath, and a self-image that lies to her — yet she still keeps moving.

That is her quiet miracle.
That is her strength.
That is her power.

She gets up and moves mountains because they need to be moved — not because she feels brave, but because she refuses to let the world win.

And there’s a part of our story I’ve never said out loud, but it lives between us:

I had her young.
I was still carrying my own scars, still battling demons I hadn’t yet named.
But the moment I learned I was going to have her, something shifted in me.

I knew I had to clear the way.
I knew her life could not be shaped by the pain I came from.
Whatever generational trauma I carried, she was going to feel less of it — not more.
And any healing I hadn’t done yet, I would do because of her.

Not to make her responsible.
Not to put weight on her shoulders.
But because she deserved the strongest, healthiest version of me.
She and her brother became my anchor — not to hold me down, but to hold me steady.
To remind me of who I needed to be, and who I refused to remain.

She has been burnt by love, marked by moments she never deserved, but she is still a believer. Even when she rolls her eyes at romance, she’s a believer. And when she found the person meant for her, it showed — not just in the relationship, but in how she softened, how she let herself be loved without flinching.

Her wedding this spring…
That was my moment.
She was breathtaking — not just in how she looked, but in how she lived that day.
Happy.
Present.
Surrounded by love she helped cultivate.
She fit into every moment like she was made for it.

I argue with her more than anyone else.
We flare, we snap, we clash — two strong women with too much fire to hold in.
But no one makes up more quickly than we do either.
That’s what closeness looks like when it’s real: no masks, no games, no distance.

She is, in so many ways, who I wish I could have been.
Her courage.
Her clarity.
Her dedication.
Her willingness to heal.
Her ambition, even when she doubts herself.
Her incredible ability to keep moving through storms and still see the possibility of sunlight.

If I had to choose one word for her —
just one —

it would be incredible.

Because she is.
In every sense.
In every season.
In every version of herself she grows into next.

This is what I see in her.
And I am proud beyond measure.