Dear Little Me,
I can picture you in that quit room again, rocking your little on as you wait for them to fall asleep. Your coffee from this morning is still on the counter, cold by now. The sink is full, laundry’s been forgotten in the washer, and you’re already running through what’s left to do before bed. I know the rush. I remember that when the days pressed down like the stone.
Just pause with me for a moment. Seeing the little sweet face lying against on you. Feel their breath against your neck. These moments slip by so fast, faster than you’ll believe. One day, you’ll ache to come back here and just hold them a little longer.
You think you’re enjoying it, and maybe you are really. But trust me, you’ll wish you soaked it in more. The dishes can wait. The chores can wait. That tiny hand gripping your finger? This won’t last forever.
Someday you will think that I should sat there for a little long. Why didn’t I sing one more song?” The things that feel small now will become the very memories that keep you going later.
That baby you’re up with at 3 a.m.? In what feels like the blink of an eye, he’ll be eleven. The little one you’re rocking in the bathroom when he’s sick, he’ll be nine, and you’ll wonder how the years went by. That sleepy little girl will be five before you realize it, constantly asking questions and trying to do it all on her own. You’ll miss this chaos. Even the nights you thought would never end.
And here’s the hardest part: one phone call is coming that will change everything. You won’t be ready. You’ll be sitting in a cold doctor’s office, and you’ll hear words that will tear the ground out from under you: Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy. A progressive condition. No cure.
You’ll sit there frozen, hearing the words but not really hearing them. You’ll feel your chest cave in, your breath catch. You’ll cry over old photos. You’ll stare at your children and grieve the future you thought they would have. You’ll spend nights buried in research, searching for answers, searching for hope. It will feel like drowning.
But listen to me, you won’t drown. Not forever. You’ll fight your way back to the surface, even if it’s slow, even if it feels impossible. You’ll learn how to carry the weight and still breathe. You’ll discover strength you didn’t know you had, because those kids will need you, and you’ll show up for them no matter what.
Life won’t get easier, but it will get wealthier. After the storm, you’ll notice rainbows. Laughter will sound sharper. Smiles will mean more. Every single moment will feel like a gift. Oddly enough, you’ll find gratitude, not for the diagnosis, but for the way it teaches you to love deeper, to hold tighter, to live more fully.
There will be times when you feel you can’t endure it. However, you won’t be walking it by yourself. The Lord will lead you. Your marriage will flex but it won’t shatter. In reality, it will become more powerful. Certain friendships will diminish, while others will strengthen further. Your belief will expand and astonish you. Your affection for your children will be the flame that sustains you in all challenges.
So, I kindly ask you, small version of me, take it easy. Keep rocking that baby for a while longer. Share one more bedtime tale, even if you feel worn out. Chuckle at the sticky situations rather than breathing out. Inhale that delightful baby scent as if it’s the most precious fragrance. The lists may be endless, yet these brief instances will come to a close. Don’t allow them to mess up.
See the wall art that says, let me love you now, while you are still little. Don’t merely observe it. Allow it to roll in. For one day, when everything changes, you’ll hold onto these memories like breath.
Right now in the middle of all the chaos, you are living the moment your heart will long for someday.
With love,
Your older self
