Written In The Waiting

A raw letter from an unborn daughter to her dad—fear, faith, and the final 60 days before birth. Early contractions, bed rest, and a father’s resolve to show up.

If this is your first time here, welcome.

This letter comes from the heart of a child who has not yet been born, a voice imagined, but filled with truth. It surrounds itself with hope, with love, with the warmth of possibility and kindness.

Please enjoy.

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Dear Papa,

I don’t have a voice yet, but I hear yours.

I hear the stories you tell, the quiet ones, the ones that feel like prayers. I listen when you speak to Mom, the love you have for her. I hear Mom sing to me and I find comfort. Sometimes you play music for me because you feel like you don’t sing good. It’s ok. I feel like you’re trying to say something through the songs you share. Maybe I don’t understand the words yet, but I understand you.

I hear Mom’s voice all the time. It’s soft, sweet, strong. Yours doesn’t come as often, but when it does, it speaks volumes. I know when it’s you. I feel the weight of your hand when you place it gently on her stomach. I feel your heartbeat. It calms me. I think it calms you, too.

You will be a good father. Not perfect. But kind. Gentle. Stern when needed, but never cruel. I know that because I can already feel your love. And from the stories Mom tells, I know how far you’ve walked just to be near me. How much you gave up. I understand sacrifice even though I haven’t seen it, because I feel it in every moment you stay when it would have been easier to leave.

I hope you know it will all be worth it. When you finally hold me, when my tiny hand wraps around your fingers, I hope everything will feel right for a moment.

I will love you. I will look to you when the world feels too big or too loud. I know things aren’t easy right now. I know you will try to shield me from the hard things. But I also know you’re human. It’s okay.

God has a purpose for everything. Even me. Even now, before I’ve taken a breath.

We’ll shape the memories you wished you had. Together. Slowly. It will take time. I know sometimes that’s the hardest part. But hold on, Papa. Hold on and remember: patience.

I’m already proud of you.

Your daughter,
Maddie

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In the heart of life, we try to make sense of things.

A child’s innocence, untouched by the noise of the world, can bring peace to the mind and stillness to the heart.

I keep asking if my 90-day challenge will collapse under its own weight. I’m pushing, but maybe not hard enough. I want this baby to be healthy, but I’m nervous just looking in the direction of where I need to be.

As I approach the final 60 days before my daughter is born, I ask that you help share this letter. Not for attention, but because this will be our voice in the dark. A momentary glimmer of hope that, just maybe, can change lives in ways we may never fully see.

If this moved you, please share it.

60 days and counting.