Written by Daisy Leverington


Motherhood: A letter to my girl

Motherhood hasn’t come naturally to Daisy Leverington. Five years in and she remains wide-eyed, terrified and in awe of the little person she’s responsible for. This week, she’s more terrified than ever.

daisy's daughter looking into the distanceTo my girl,

The man we were talking about in the bath on Monday night won the competition to be the Big Boss.

The man whose name we laughed at. He got fewer votes than the lady, but we don’t make the rules, darling, they do. ‘They’ will become so significant to you as you grow up.

They are a handful of wealthy white men who make rules about your future, about your finances and about your body. We live with the privilege of being white and a few thousand miles across the sea and I’m still terrified for you.

Imagine being governed by them should we not have those privileges. How terrifying that would be?

I’m worried, my girl. Your future seems expansive and limitless at the moment. Your response to the news was to simply state that perhaps one day you could be the boss too. I wish I had the same optimism, although I’ll never let on that I don’t.

I see your future in a weight of university debt, of limited travel as our borders grow higher and our horizon moves ever nearer. Years of paying empty rent (your dad and I have spent £36k on your childhood home so far but we can’t afford to buy it. I’m so sorry).

Your body will be the subject of parliamentary debate, your hard-won rights eroded and dismissed. I’m so scared that your choices will be fewer than mine were as I grew up.

I don’t want you to be afraid from what these people tell you. The people in the boats aren’t the enemy; the photographs in the newspaper are meant to scare you. Don’t let them. Do your research and find out how to help. Keep bringing your old toys to me and telling me they must be taken to the charity shop for someone else to play with.

Never lose your faith in kindness, even when I am rapidly losing my own.

I want you to be better than me, my girl. I am a seething mass of anger as I write this, and have let the whole shitshow (it’s OK to swear if you’re really cross) affect my work today.

How dare these people make our days any less joyful? How dare they creep into our daily lives? They don’t belong in our house, and we don’t welcome them. Anyone who can judge a person by their colour, by their race, by who they love, by their gender can – as you so succinctly told the cat when you were two – shit off.

“Stay kind my girl, and never let your fear grow stronger than your heart.”

The man with the funny hair might think he won something great this week. He didn’t. He didn’t win the love of our friends and family. He isn’t important to us.

When you study 2016 in your GCSE class and realise that he might be the reason you are reading this in a radiation-proof bunker underneath Coventry, just remember how much we laughed at his silly name and his hair.

That hair might well be the last of his moral fibre trying desperately to leave his physical body.

Baby, he’s a cunt. That’s a special word, which very few people earn in their lifetimes. I won’t let you hear me say it, but please know that I thought it very loudly.

Pay no heed to the great and powerful Oz, because in the end he’s just a prick hiding behind a curtain with a megaphone.

The lady who didn’t win said this, and I want you to listen carefully, little one:

“Never doubt that you are powerful and deserving of every chance and opportunity in the world.”

Stay kind my girl, and never let your fear grow stronger than your heart. The love which surrounds you is greater than the wealth of the silly men in expensive ties.

And your hands are bigger.

Love, Mum.


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Written by Daisy Leverington

Daisy Leverington - Actor, mother, expert at winging it.