Twenty-nine years ago, in a country halfway around the world, I was raped. Until now, only a handful of people knew.

There is another side to this passing of the torch – a sadness that I cannot deny. Because just as her star is beginning to rise, mine is beginning to fall.

I wonder, how many more years will she hold my hand, how much longer do we have to skate together, just the two of us?

Your daddy died nearly two years ago, and you still sometimes cry for him. I do too.

She has put her in a box and is now surprised when my daughter doesn’t fit into that box or any box for that matter.

I got this great idea to put a journal and pen on the counter of their woodland themed bathroom.

As my big goal in life is to raise daughters who are compassionate, giving, strong thinking life-lovers, I recently decided we are going to collaboratively give more often. Specifically, in some small or large way, we will give every day.

I couldn’t see it through her fury but she’d wanted me to reassure her and I had, in many acts of stubbornness, drawn lines in the sand.

I remember my moderate disappointment. Shouldn’t a daughter resemble her mother?

But maybe, just maybe, if she remembers what we share, that we are literally cut from the same cloth, she'll remember me.