Sometimes, a piece you’ve written stays with you—not just because of what it captured, but because of what it still carries.
This poem began as a reflection on the moment I first held my daughter. But yesterday, on her 40th birthday, I wanted to revisit it—not to rewrite the past, but to reframe it. To speak not only to the newborn I once cradled, but to the woman she’s become.
The story is still the same. But the meaning runs deeper now.
Still Held
Forty years ago today, I met you for the first time.
You arrived three weeks early—impatient, it seemed, even then to begin.
I was 24—young and idealistic. I didn’t yet understand how a single moment could upend everything I thought I knew—before you, and after.
I remember being overwhelmed—joy, relief, awe, and something quieter I didn’t yet have words for.
A nurse pointed me to the paper towel dispenser. I drifted over, still watching you—the tiny someone who had just shifted my gravity.
When I returned to your side, I was trailing half a roll behind me.
Everyone laughed. So did I.
But even then, I sensed it: some bonds don’t break. They just change shape.
Looking back, I feel such tenderness for the man I was in that moment.
I didn’t know how quickly certain seasons would vanish.
I didn’t know how deeply I’d miss the moments I never captured.
I didn’t know how few memories you’d have with my dad—how much I’d wish I’d preserved.
But here’s what I know now—what I want you to carry today:
You were loved from your very first breath.
Not with a love that flickers, but one that holds steady—rooted, growing, here.
You’ve lived through things I never could have imagined in that hospital room.
You’ve broken and rebuilt. Faltered and found your footing.
Quietly. Fiercely. And through it all, you’ve become someone I am endlessly proud of.
Life hasn’t made it easy. But you’ve met it with grit, with depth, with that quiet power that’s always been yours.
You are more resilient than you know.
You always have been.
We were ready for you from the start—hopeful, grounded, and fully present.
And while time has stretched and tested the bond between us, it never frayed.
At the other end of that cord—always—was someone who would be there.
Still is.
Here’s the poem I wrote for you.
Just a small moment. But one I’ve carried for forty years.
The Cords That Bind
You were early to this world
Three weeks early
Knowing you now
I feel that you were
impatient to get going
Nothing prepares you
for how parenthood feels
As the midwife weighed
and measured you
I took in your perfection
My tears of joy and relief
threatened to become a flood
Noticing, a nurse took my arm
“Paper towels are over there,” she said
Pointing to a wall-mounted dispenser
My vision was so blurry
That it seemed to take a while
for me to reach them
But it was probably more that
I couldn’t stop looking at you
Returning to the bedside
I was met with laughter
After the earlier anxiety
Of your rushed delivery
It felt so very welcome
Failing to notice that the paper towel
was one long continuous roll
I was still connected to the dispenser
And just for a moment
I had my own umbilical cord