When I was younger, I was asked to look after a neighbour's child. I agreed, mostly out of politeness, not instinct. She was just going to be gone for an hour. Little Tim was four years old, curious and energetic. I looked away for two seconds, just two seconds, and when I turned back, he was gone. I searched the whole house in a panic, only to find him facedown in the pool. My heart stopped. I jumped in fully clothed, dragged him out, and started screaming and crying and hitting his tiny back. I didn't know what I was doing. I just knew I had to keep trying. I tilted his head back, pinched his nose, and breathed into his mouth like I had seen in movies. I was fifteen, shaking, soaked, and begging God to give him back. And he coughed. He came back. The relief crushed me. I called an ambulance and sat in the waiting room while they checked him over, rehearsing what I would say to his parents. In that sterile, too-bright room, I made a decision. I wasn't the nurturing type. I wasn't built for it. Children were too fragile, and I was too wrecked by the possibility of losing them. Years passed. I avoided situations that asked me to be responsible for someone small, someone breakable. So at 24, when my sister asked me to babysit my niece Beth, I panicked. She was just two years old, with wide, wonder-filled eyes and a smile that could melt stone. But I saw only the danger. I saw what could go wrong. I tried every excuse. “I have plans that evening I can't reschedule” “Isn't there someone else?” But no one else was available and my sister needed the help. So I reluctantly agreed. Don't get me wrong I loved Beth. I even loved spending time with her with other adults resent . She clung to my neck and called me “Auntie D.” She asked for juice, then spilled it all over the floor. She danced barefoot in the mess. She sang in broken sentences and laughed so freely it hurt to watch. That weekend I was nervous but she needed me, so I prepared. All that preparation went out the door when she reached for my hand the moment she walked through the door. That first visit, I kept expecting something to go wrong. But it didn't. She of course spilled her juice. She got her socks wet. She giggled when I tried to read her a book. I hovered over her like I was made of glass. She, on the other hand, was joy in motion. One afternoon, she tripped and scraped her knee. I froze again. But this time, I moved faster. I cleaned it, held her while she cried, and kissed her tiny forehead. She looked up at me and smiled. Something in me cracked open. Beth kept coming over. Weekends turned into routines. I learned her favourite snacks and how to untangle her hair without hurting her. I started to feel less like I was pretending and more like I was present. I stopped flinching at every sound. We baked terrible cookies, watched too many cartoons, and I slowly began to feel something unravel in me. Guilt, maybe. Fear. Or maybe just the belief that I wasn't capable. Beth didn't heal me with magic. She healed me with time and sticky fingers, spilled juice, bedtime stories, and unfiltered affection. She didn't know I was afraid. She just knew I was there. Now I'm 29. I'm a mom. I still don't think I'm the nurturing type. I'm not always gentle. I don't knit. I forget to cut the crusts off sandwiches. But I'm learning that love isn't about being perfect. It's about showing up, every time. My son has makes me laugh. He trips and gets up again. He trusts the world the way only children can. He trusts me. And I trust myself because Beth taught me how.