By Paint Her in Color Founder, Laura Spiegel

My daughter and I have seen more rainbows in one Hawaiian week than in the entirety of our Midwestern lives. More importantly, we have seen them together. We have oohed at the first glimmer of a sighting. We have sung out each color as it danced across the sky. We have wondered how a rainbow begins and where it ends and if a pot of gold can actually stretch into the depths of the sea.

My daughter lives with cystic fibrosis, and her days are filled with color. Mine are too, I suppose, but more often than not, I feel those colors swirling beneath my surface. At any given moment, any one of them can break free. Sometimes, two or three mingle together in ways that feel unpredictable. Hots and colds blending and bleeding in ways only nature could define.

The reds of fierceness and oranges of bravery, protectiveness, and fear. The yellows of joy more treasured than gold. The greens of curiosity and pride. The blues of calmness and contentment. And the purples. Always waiting to surprise us with the hope and miracles that can take our breath away.

I suppose that’s what it means to be a mother. The harsh and the brilliant wrap together to create a contradictory canvas of our days.

I ring with pride when I watch my daughter glide into school, ladybug bag bouncing and head up.

I smile until it hurts when she skips among the citrus trees that she has spied for the very first time.

I feel wild and alive when she chases a rooster to say “Hello” and to ask how it is feeling today.

I feel grateful when she crouches to rescue a worm in need of a soft bed of grass. She has a kindness that cannot be taught.

I feel brave when I advocate for what I know is right. A change of gloves at airport security. An extra splash of sanitizer at the doctor’s office. A better needle poke. A second opinion. A medication that never fails to do the trick.

I feel sick when she screams in pain. Do it to me instead. Give it all to me. Just let her be.

I feel cozy and strong when I wrap my arms around her as she sleeps. I can protect her from anything. Except that from which I cannot.

I feel envy when I see others doing it so effortlessly. Dirt is just dirt. Germs are just germs. It’s just a cold. Let kids be kids. I wish I could, except that it’s not, and I can’t.

I feel hardened when age is regarded with degradation and loathe. Age is a gift to be unwrapped slowly and treasured as long as we can.

I feel remorse when I realize that some of my worst days may be the best days for others. My daughter can do so many things. She dreams of her future in ways others cannot. When I remember that, I crash down to reality and feel selfish and wrong.

I feel hopeful when I talk to others who have journeyed before me. Brave men and women who have wisdom to share and who can whisper at just the right moment, “You’re doing okay. Don’t let your inner voice tell you otherwise.”

I feel proud and scared and protective and full and hardened and hopeful and alive – all at the same time. I count her freckles. I taste her tears. I paint her toenails. I hear her prayers. And I tell her every night. “I am so proud of you, and I am so glad God gave you to me.”

She is a miracle who has painted every color upon my heart.

And I know in my heart of hearts that I am better for it.