These Are Her Olden Days

Somewhere between Parker and Phoenix on a long Arizona highway…Amy in the backseat, all of three and a half years old, her legs swinging under her car seat straps, while I shared stories of my childhood. The air was hot and heavy, humming with the low buzz of the road. 

Amy and her older brother Bill listened in awe as I told them about the “olden days”- the mischief my younger brothers and I got into when I was little, when their grandparents were young. We were reminiscing, laughing, and passing the time. Then, clear as a bell from the backseat, came her voice:

"Mom, you know... these are my olden days now."

I don’t think I’ve ever fully recovered from the weight of that sentence.

Because she was right. And not just about herself. We are always in the middle of our olden days. We just don’t know it until they’re gone.

This is a story about Amy. But it’s also about me. About motherhood. About the wild, wretched, beautiful journey of raising someone who comes into the world with their own fire-and trusting that fire to teach you something holy, even when it burns.

Amy Rae-Ann came out fighting mad. Fists clenched, jaw set, lungs at full volume…as if she’d just been rudely interrupted from something far more serene. We used to joke she was on her final incarnation, already unpacking her bags in a quiet little divine village when the universe yanked her back for one more human round. 

And not just anywhere…right into my arms. She wasn’t gentle about it. She arrived with opinions, intensity, and a look that said, "Remember me."

And from the beginning, she had a love-hate relationship with me. I was mostly her comfort and also her adversary. The one she reached for, and the one she raged against more often than I liked. She was hypersensitive- both emotionally and physically. 

I still remember the terror of her tiny body seizing nearly every time she bumped her head. 

The way a mosquito bite could swell her eyes shut. 

The nights I found her on top of the refrigerator, sneaking the hidden sugar like a toddler raccoon in footie pajamas.  

The doctors said she had a super sensitive nervous system that she would eventually outgrow.

Until then, she was relentless. Magical. Infuriating. And I had a patience with her that I didn’t know I had. It came from somewhere bigger than me. 

I’ve always believed our souls chose each other. I was the right mom for her…not because I always got it right, but because I was willing to try everything.  And she was the perfect daughter for me - teaching me every step of the way.

In those early years, she and her brother adored each other.  They were each other's first best friend. They ran through meadows, forests, and along river banks, played "school" often (Bill was always the teacher - LOL), reenacted scenes from old VHS tapes, and created new worlds from nothing.

 The bond they shared was real and deep. Like many sibling relationships, it’s evolved with adulthood…and not without its bumps. Sometimes, those shifts are hard to watch as a mom. But their connection is still there, steady and quiet. Not always visible, not always easy, but strong. Resilient. And worth returning to…when the time is right, in the ways that only they can choose.

My relationship with Amy had its own rhythm…different, but deep and unbreakable. And it showed up in unexpected places.

I remember one fall evening, after her dad and I divorced, and we’d moved, and the world had shifted under our feet, Amy and I cleaned offices together to pay for her new horse she bought with her own money. We had just left a building and sat in our Ford Escort, dusty and tired. She leaned her head over on my shoulder and said, "Thank you, Mom. I love that we're doing this together. I know it’s hard. But thank you for doing this with me." I never told her, but I cried in the shower that night. Not from exhaustion, but from awe. At who she already was.

She bought that horse and within a year, she became a rodeo queen…spurs, hats, rodeo queen costumes, and feed and board. But it wasn’t handed to her. She worked for it…late nights, early mornings, weekends on the road, cleaning stalls, cleaning offices with me just to afford her horse, her gear, the travel. She didn’t have the fanciest outfits or the flashiest wheels, but she had grit, grace, and a will that wouldn’t bend. And plenty of support - a family and a community that loved her. 

She made her own way and stood out because of her presence, not just her performance.

And it didn’t stop there.  

I watched her get knocked down-literally-and climb back on her horse. I watched her walk through grief, losing friends too young, too suddenly. I watched her get traumatized and shot her senior year, and then try to patch her life together with courage and chaos. And I watched her fall apart. Then do the slow, painful, soul-deep work of getting back up. Not just once. Again and again.

She became a certified nail technician, built up a loyal clientele, and created a thriving business with her own two hands. She bought her first home. She weathered the recession of 2008–2010…a time that brought even the strongest to their knees…and kept going…even when it was hard as hell. 

It was humbling. It was brutal. But she kept moving.

She moved to California by herself, started over, made her way. She knew when to hold on and when she was ready to come back home. She had every right to be proud of herself-and I was proud too. Always just a phone call away. Sometimes cheering her on, sometimes kicking her butt. I’m a mother, after all.

There were years I feared for her. Her choices, her spirals, her pain. But even then, there was something underneath it all. A quiet resilience A stubborn independence. A belief that life could be better. That she could be better.

And now?

Now, she is… Amy. Fully, beautifully herself. After years of doing the hard work…emotionally, physically, spiritually—she’s come into her own. She knows who she is and what matters to her. She’s learned to say no, and say it with love. She sets boundaries now…not out of defense, but out of deep self-respect. 

And at her core, she’s still that same sweet, loving girl… just with a sharper edge when needed. A protector. A fierce defender of those she loves.

And her humor? It's witty, brilliant, sometimes wildly inappropriate, always on point. She can drop a line mid-sentence that dissolves tension like it was never there. Her generosity shows up the same way…quiet, fierce, and full of heart. She loves without fanfare, in all the right ways…thoughtful gestures, phone calls when you need them most, truth when you’re ready to hear it.

And animals? They’ve always known. Amy has this soul-deep connection that they trust immediately. From the neighborhood dogs to the desert birds and bees to the orangutans she somehow bonded with at the zoo…she doesn’t force it. They just know. 

Her home is an extension of that energy. It’s not just beautiful…it’s alive. Warm. Layered. Peaceful. It shines from the inside out, just like she does.

She attracts good people. Kind people. Real people. And I know why. I see it. And I’m in awe of who she is…of who she continues to become. Better doesn’t mean perfect. It means whole. 

Amy is the woman who stopped drinking nearly eight years ago. Who reads labels. Who eats clean. Who moves her body with intention. Who shares sunsets with the love of her life and their dog Nala. Who teaches yoga and pilates and preaches nothing, but lives her truth with integrity.

She still gets hurt. She still has a little bite. But that same fire that raged through her childhood now warms the people around her. She offers insight when asked, holds space with grace, and knows exactly who she is.

She’s a stepmom, a grandmother, a partner, a healer, a seeker. And still...my daughter.

These are her olden days now. And they are magnificent.

Maybe you’ve loved someone like her…a person who came into the world blazing. Maybe you are someone like her. Or maybe, like me, you’re just trying to love your people well through the hard and the holy.

It’s not always graceful. But it is always love.

Amy, I see you. I see every step of your journey…every scar…every rising…every breath you fought to take.

And I love you more than you will ever fully know.

Happy Birthday.

Always remember….Love is All there is.  

Mom