Dear HB,

Dear Hypothetical Baby…or HB for short, 

I originally started this blog as a future gift for you–a love letter of sorts. I had no intention of ever sharing my thoughts with the world (or my tiny corner of it, anyway). But shortly after the first “installment” of your present, I changed my mind. And Love, even before your existence, you’re making a difference. And I cannot wait to tell you all about it. 

Someday I will tell you the story of how so many people were rooting for you before you were even you. I know that thought is going to seem strange to you at first. “How can people be in the corner of someone who doesn’t exist?” you’ll ask. “What was I before I was me?” 

First, I will tell you to go ask your father. Then, I will tell you how the story of “how you came to be” provided comfort for so many people who were also aching for their own HB. You will grow up knowing that you don’t give up just because something is hard. If you care about it, you keep fighting. You will be brave, my child. You will be brave because you came from fighters. And before you were anything, you were a fighter. 

Someday I will read you my favorite children’s book: Walk Two Moons. The entire book centers around the Native American proverb that says “You shouldn’t judge a man until you’ve walked two moons in his moccasins.” I will tell you about how your story (and this love letter to you) helped others walk in moccasins they would never have otherwise known. To be able to bring light to something so many people fight in the dark…that’s a big thing, little one. 

I don’t know when you’ll get here. I don’t know when I’ll hear your heartbeat for the first time. I don’t know when I’ll get to feel you kick. I don’t know when I’ll get to find out if you’re a boy or a girl. (Your name is already picked out, either way.) I don’t know any of these things, HB. But, until then, I’m waiting. I’m doing everything I can to make sure you hurry up and get here safely. 

Oh, baby, I have so much I want to tell you. But until you get here, I’ll just keep writing it down here so that I don’t forget anything. You see, your momma may be a storyteller, but she is horrible at remembering details. 

Earlier, I said that before you were anything, you were a fighter. But even before you were a fighter, you were loved. 

Love, 

Your Hypothetical Mom…or HM for short

(eleven. eight. twenty twenty-one)