This morning mirrored so many others in the routines of parenthood—packing snacks, double-checking backpacks, and loading into the car with sleepy but eager little feet in tow. But what unfolded at preschool drop-off today was anything but ordinary.
When Lydia entered her classroom, she looked different. The soft, faint bruising across her cheek told a story of recent treatment—procedures meant to help keep the port-wine-stain that blushes across her cheek as healthy as possible. It was an act of love and care, yet so visible to her tiny peers.
As I watched from the edge of the room, I noticed a hush fall over the group of children. Eyes flickered sideways, whispers began to surface, and several of her classmates stared wide-eyed at Lydia’s face. Most children, given that same moment, might hesitate, or conform by looking away—or worse, reacting with fear or discomfort.
But Lydia? She took a breath, squared her shoulders, and did something I will never forget.
She walked across the carpet, small yet determined, and approached her cubby. With a calmness I can’t quite explain, she reached for a familiar hardcover she often carries with her: Sam’s Birthmark. She held it in both hands and handed it gently to her teacher, nodding as if to say, “Maybe this will help.”
In an instant, the teacher began reading—not just because it’s storytime, but because that book suddenly had new meaning. Lydia’s choice transformed the moment—from something awkward to a profound teaching opportunity. Through a simple act, she invited everyone to feel seen, to connect through empathy, and to understand that what makes us look different doesn’t make us less.
I couldn’t hold it together. I gripped the stroller with trembling hands and tears fell—tears not of fear for how others might treat her, but of awe. Here she was, not even three, teaching lessons in self-advocacy, emotional intelligence, and love.
I cried because I know in my bones that this child—my child—is going to do great things. I cried because she already is. She’s rewriting the story of what it means to flourish in your own skin, before most of us even fully learn to accept ours.
So here’s to Lydia: my brave, beautiful, resilient daughter. May she continue to lead with quiet courage, kindness, and the power to change our world just by being herself.