Mama Always Knew....
There is a kind of knowing that lives deeper than thought. Not hope. Not wishful thinking. Just knowing.
Mothers carry it in a place that has no name. A certainty about their child that exists long before the world gets its turn to weigh in. I have carried that knowing about my son Brighton his entire life.
Brighton came into this world at 28 weeks. Too early. Too small. He was not supposed to be here yet. Neither was his twin sister Halle. They arrived together into a world that wasn’t ready for them. Halle stayed with us for a short ten days then was called back to the angels.
Brighton stayed. And from his very first breath in that NICU, I knew exactly who this boy was going to be.
The doctors were careful the way doctors are when they are preparing you for uncertainty. Born this early, he could have issues with cognitive development. I heard them. I just didn’t believe them.
Elementary school was hard. Brighton was what teachers politely call “a little extra.” The kid who needed a little more patience and flexibility and willingness to see past the surface.
He has always been a solid A and B student. Smart. Curious. Engaged.
But he was also that kid. The one that got blamed in a group whenever something went wrong. The one who carried the weight of being seen as a problem in a system that didn’t know what to do with him.
His last two weeks of elementary school, they pulled him from class over something that was so ridiculous, I still can’t believe it. To this day, it infuriates me how the principal handled it. I lost all respect for her as an educator and mother that day. Every time I see her, I still get angry.
Mamas never forget, and even worse, neither did Brighton. He still remembers it and talks of it. Kids always remember when the adults chose the institution over them. That single incident scarred his memory of elementary school forever. Sadly, that was never a thought or concern of theirs.
Mitch and I were nervous going into middle school. We braced ourselves for more of the same. We were so wrong. Middle school gave Brighton the one thing elementary school never did.
Room. Freedom.
He was finally allowed to be himself without the label. Without the box. Without being that kid before he even walked through the door. And Brighton, our 28-week miracle, he didn’t just survive middle school - he THRIVED.
This week we toured the middle school with our younger son Cameron, who starts there next year. We brought Brighton along. And something happened in those hallways that stopped me completely.
Teacher after teacher stopped us. Unprompted. From the heart. All saying the same thing. Your son is one of my absolute favorites. He is so smart. I love having him in class. He is such a great kid. This kid is going to be something someday. He is so courteous. He is so kind. He helps me in class with the difficult kids. Over and over. Down every hallway.
My mama heart was so full I could barely speak. But here is the thing. I was not surprised. The pride was enormous. The kind that makes your eyes sting in a school hallway in the most embarrassing and wonderful way.
But underneath the pride was something quieter. Not, “I can’t believe how far he has come.” But, “I always knew this was in him.” I knew it in the NICU. I knew it in every elementary school meeting when someone described my son like a problem to be solved. I knew it every single time I looked at this boy and saw exactly who he was. Not who the system said he was. Who he actually was.
Brighton has something that his mother spent decades trying to find. He simply does not care what people think of him. Not in an arrogant way. In the most grounded, certain, completely unbothered way I have ever witnessed.
Recently, a popular girl at school asked him why he doesn’t like popular girls. He looked at her and said, I don’t like the fakeness. They only care about material things, not people. That’s not attractive to me.
She gave him the finger. He smiled and said, have a nice day and walked away.
Later he told me, “Mom, it makes them so mad when I don’t react.”
I mean. I could never. Not at 14. Sometimes, not even now at 53. This boy came into the world 12 weeks early and has been ahead of schedule ever since.
Brighton, you came into this world alongside your sister who we loved and lost and carry with us every single day. You survived when the odds were uncertain. You thrived when the system couldn’t see you. You refused to let anyone define you. Not the doctors. Not the elementary school. Not the popular girl who gave you the finger. You just smiled and said have a nice day. And walked away.
I have spent a lifetime learning to do what you do naturally. I am so proud of who you are. And I am so grateful that you reminded me, without even knowing you were doing it, that the people who couldn’t see you clearly were never the authority on who you were.
Mama always knew.
She just needed a middle school hallway full of teachers to remind her that knowing was enough all along.