On Friday, my granddaughter turned nine.
I was lucky enough to be present at her birth, and I’ve been there for every milestone since. There is something rare and deeply meaningful about watching a life unfold from its very first breath.
During Cece’s pregnancy, she sought the support of a craniosacral therapist who was also intuitive. The therapist told her she could see Winnie; that she was a very special soul, almost like a fairy. So, so special.
Nine years later, I still think about that moment, and as I watch Winnie grow, I understand exactly what she meant.
Winnie has always felt like a child of nature. She moves through the world with a kind of quiet awareness, as if she is listening to something the rest of us sometimes forget to hear. She notices the small things: the curl of a new leaf, the way sunlight shifts through the trees, the hum of life in places others pass by. She doesn’t rush past the world; she quietly lingers with it.
The other day at the park, she asked me to walk with her to the restroom. She paused at the door and looked up at me, her voice soft and thoughtful.
“Do you think the spiders will be okay if we go in?” she asked.
She had read that Daddy Long Legs can be venomous, and the idea had stayed with her. Winnie has never been afraid of bugs, but a friend at school is petrified of spiders, and somehow that fear had found its way into her. She was holding it carefully, almost gently, trying to understand it. Winnie asked for my advice/reassurance that spiders are just beautiful creatures living their own perfect lives. Satisfied with my response, the conversation turned to the funny “notes” on the bathroom walls.
Winnie’s sensitivity is that she doesn’t just feel her own world, she feels the worlds of others, too. She gathers stories, emotions, and ideas, and carries them with a quiet sense of care. Even her worries come from a place of awareness, of connection.
In a world that can feel so loud, so fast, and at times, so frightening, that kind of sensitivity can seem like a burden. There is so much to take in, so much that even we as adults struggle to make sense of. It is easy to wonder how a heart like hers will hold it all.
When I am with Winnie, I am reminded that sensitivity is not weakness, it is a kind of wisdom. It is what allows her to pause at a doorway and think not just of herself, but of the small lives around her. It is what keeps her connected to wonder, even when worry finds its way in.
Being near her is a reminder, to slow down, to notice, to care more gently for the world and for each other. She carries something luminous, something tender and strong at the same time.
My reflection, on this last Sunday in April, is this: children like Winnie don’t just grow in this world; they help heal it. If we pay attention, they show us how to listen more closely, feel more deeply, and walk more gently on this Earth.
Perhaps the real gift is not simply watching her grow, but allowing her to quietly shape who I am still becoming.
