Who is that little girl?, I think as I pull out the 28-year-old snapshot I carry in my journal. Legs folded Indian-style. Hands grasping her ankles. Face set in an unapologetic expression. She would not be moved from the roof of the brown truck. She had climbed. Scaled the back bumper. Soldiered through the bed. Conquered the rear window. She had reached her destination.

And she would not be moved. She would not deny who she was or what she had done. She would not ask permission first, but charge ahead, unrelenting, full-boar. She would ask forgiveness later (if pressed). But there was nothing to forgive. She was only being herself. Her tenacious, curious, undiluted self. She was only doing what a confident, inspired, spirited little girl would do.

Was it dangerous?

Sure.

Was it risky?

You bet.

But safety, comfort, static-ness – they were overrated.

As I think about my son and my role as his mother, I am decided. I must find the value of risk again. Risking the climb, risking the fall, risking what people might think of me. Because Jude needs that kind of mom. A mom who plays hard and loves harder – no matter the heights to fall.

Yes, if I am to care for Jude in the best way possible, that little girl needs to emerge again. Because she’s still there. I know she is. And she needs to come out to play. And climb, climb, climb the hard places beside him.