To My Daughter: When You Forget Who You Are, Go to the Well

My Beloved Daughter,

This is not just a letter.

It is a reckoning.

A homecoming.

A torch passed from the womb to wonder.

I am writing to you from the marrow of my bones, from the stories etched into my stretch marks and the laugh lines carved by holy defiance. I'm not dressing this up for appearances. I'm handing you what's real. Raw. Unfiltered. Smudged with the truth. This—this letter—is my breath meeting your spirit.

I want you to know the terrain I walked, the mountains I climbed barefoot with a cracked heart and a laugh that startled silence. I want you to know the beautiful chaos that made me—your mother—a woman stitched together by bruises and brilliance, by ancestral fire and necessary softness.

You came from the soil of resistance.

You came from the hips that never lied to the truth.

You, my dear, are a product of a line of Haitian women who not only made soup joumou but also stirred the pot of revolution, grounding you in a rich heritage.

I Have Known Battles

I have been silenced by the world and unsilenced by my own scream.

I've been loved too little and needed too much.

I've fought demons disguised as lovers, institutions, and sometimes, myself.

I've bled in boardrooms and wept in bathrooms. I've begged the Divine to show up—and when she did, she looked like me, like you, like Grandma whispering psalms between her teeth.

There were nights I laid on my bed, bones aching with loneliness, pressing prayers into my pillow like it was an altar. Nights when joy felt like a rumor. Days when laughter was my rebellion. Still, I chose to stay. Still, I rose. Still, I danced—hips swinging like machetes—cutting through every lie that told me I wasn't enough.

I Have Known Intimacy

Not just the kind that happens behind closed doors, but the kind that happens when you look in the mirror and say, "I love you. Even when."

Even when your body feels foreign.

Even when your dreams feel distant.

Even when the world forgets your worth.

There were times I gave too much. But I learned that giving is sacred, not sacrificial.

Now I give from a cup that runneth over, not one that's cracked.

Remember this, ma chérie: Never water someone else's garden while yours dies in drought.

You Are the Dream of Every Woman Who Came Before

Behind you, there's a line of Haitian warrior women, all hips and hallelujahs, drums and defiance. They are not just your ancestors; they are your council, your protectors, your reflection.

So when the world tries to make you small, go to the well.

Yes, baby—the well.

The one inside you. The one lined with ancestral honey, with mango tree wisdom and fireflies that speak Kreyòl. The one where Bondye meets you with a wink.

Sit there. Drink. Remember.

You are not broken.

You are born from the earth that swallowed colonizers whole and still gave birth to mangoes.

You are not alone.

You are held by generations of women who bled so you could blossom.

You are not forgotten.

You are the legacy of laughter after grief. The joy they couldn't kill.

When Life Gets Messy (Because It Will)

Laugh.

Yes, laugh. Laugh like your life depends on it—because sometimes it does.

Wear the dress that makes you feel like the goddess you are.

Kiss slow. Cry loud. Say no when it dishonors you.

And don't forget to rest. Rest is not a weakness—it is a weapon.

There's power in your stillness. There's magic in your boundaries.

And baby, don't ever let anyone confuse your softness for fragility.

You are silk and steel.

You are ocean and lava.

You are light and shadow.

You, my dear, are not just a person; you are a force. You are the medicine and the revolution, the embodiment of strength and resilience.

If I Could Leave You With One Truth

It would be this:

You are loved. Not just by me. Not just in theory. But in full, abundant, holy, ancestral glory.

I love you with the same fire that burned in our grandmother's prayers.

I love you with the same force that turned trauma into testimony.

I love you as you are.

Not as the world wants you to be.

You don't have to earn love. You are loved.

When you forget who you are, go to the well.

She will remind you.

With sacred laughter,

With divine mischief,

With the unshakable knowing:

You are the daughter of a woman who has been healed.

You are the continuation of every miracle that survived.

And baby, you are just getting started.

Majestically and always,

Sherley Delia

Founder, Healing Majestically Consultancy