A Letter to my Future Baby
For months now, I’ve been collecting thoughts to share with my growing baby. Every ultrasound, every belly kick, and every ache and pain beautifully reminds me of this little human my body is creating. I find myself sitting up at night, writing down love notes and life lessons I want the baby to know. My thoughts had been scattered everywhere — on ripped notepads all over the house, and in broken sentences within my phone.
I collected them in one place, and sat quietly to write this letter to my future baby. Today I am sharing it with you, because I think we are all connected by motherhood. Maybe we are not all ‘moms’ in the traditional sense. But we all mother in different ways — showing tremendous love to our friends, our colleagues, our pets, even strangers. Here’s what I want my baby to know…
We haven’t officially met yet. But I know you. I know your heart, your soul, your movements. You are unmistakably mine. Ours, actually. You are unmistakably ours. Dad is ready for you.
You have always been a part of me. Part of my hopes, my dreams, my plans. Part of every journal I’ve kept, every discussion I’ve had with God, every glance I’ve shared with your father.
Sweet one, you were created out of so much love. I want you to always know that. Love is so beautiful, so powerful, so simple. A lot of people will tell you love is complicated. It’s not. Love, of any kind, is what will fuel you through life. Love and be loved. Unconditionally and wholeheartedly. Love is the most uncomplicated feeling of them all.
Your dad and I met during a game of college beer pong. It wasn’t exactly the romantic Parisian sighting I had dreamed about as a teenager. Instead, it was in a loud fraternity-like house in the middle of Indiana. Not exactly Europe. But it led me to your dad…
… and it constantly reminds me life is far more beautiful when it is imperfect and unexpected. Remember that as your life takes you in directions you didn’t map out. Because it will. Life will give you what you didn’t ask for. But it’s still a gift. Welcome your experiences with an open heart. And remember, failure will make your fears disappear. Embrace it. Failure means you’re moving, moving, moving.
I feel you kicking right now. My goodness, little one, you are strong for your size. Maybe you know I’m talking about you. Or maybe you’re excited because we’re finally finishing your nursery this week. It’s a happy little oasis, perfect for you. Your shelves will have books and frames and empty journals ready to hold our moments together.
I hope you’ll be patient with me, as I navigate this new role. I’m not sure how I’ll handle your tears, your dirty diapers, or your sleepless nights. I’m not sure how I’ll handle your first ear infection, or your teething tantrums, or your inevitable stubbornness. But I do know that smile of yours will quiet the chaos, just like your laughter will ease life’s noise.
Dad and I still don’t know if you’re a boy or girl. We don’t care, by the way. We just want YOU. All of you. Your aunties think we’re crazy for not finding out. But it’s been so fun keeping everyone guessing. We are so in love with you, even before knowing precisely who you are.
We have a lot to teach each other. After all, you’ve already taught me severe nausea, backaches, and swollen feet are, indeed, a sign of beauty. Who knew?! But really, little one, we’ll learn alongside each other. We are in this together.
I feel every feeling for you. I am grateful, happy and ready. I am scared, tired, and unprepared. But mostly, I am sure. Sure of you, of us, and of all the purpose you are already filling.
I love you.
Photos by Elizabeth Messina