The Only Thing I Want Her to Know for Sure
By Crystal Virgin
A few weeks ago, my five year old was playing in the pool with the little girl who lives next door.
I was watching from nearby when I saw the neighbor girl lean in close, the way kids do when they're about to share something just between them. A secret.
Amelia pulled back, smiled, and said simply: "No secrets, remember?"
Not unkindly. Not dramatically. Just matter-of-factly, with a smile, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Because for her, right now, it is.
I had to look away for a second so she wouldn't see me tearing up over a moment that probably looked unremarkable to everyone else. But to me it was everything. It was evidence that something we had been trying to teach her had actually landed. That she had received it, made it hers, and used it — calmly, kindly, on her own.
That is the whole goal, isn't it? To give them something that becomes theirs.
Why We're Keeping Her Home This Year
I'll be honest: the thought of sending my daughter out into the world terrifies me.
Not because I think the world is without goodness — it isn't. But because she is five, and the world is complicated, and I am not ready to hand her over to it without more time to build her up first. My husband and I made the decision to homeschool this year because we want to give her the best opportunity we can. We want her identity to be rooted before the world gets loud opinions about who she should be.
That is not a permanent decision or a judgment of anyone who chooses differently. It's just where we are right now — trying to buy a little more time to do the work before the door opens wide.
But the door will open. It always does. And so the question I keep sitting with is: what do I want her to carry when it does?
I Will Love You No Matter What
The most important thing I want my daughters to know — the thing I would carve into their hearts if I could — is this:
I will love you no matter what.
No matter what you do, no matter who you become, no matter what choices you make or mistakes you carry or questions you wrestle with. My love for you does not have conditions. It does not have a limit. It will not be withdrawn.
I know this is hard to convey to a five year old, especially on the hard days when she is emotional and acting unloved and I am responding in ways that don't communicate it clearly. I know there is a gap between what I mean and what she receives sometimes.
But I want her to know — bone-deep, unshakeable, available to her in the middle of the night when she needs it most — that her dad and I are the only people in the world who will love her exactly like this. That we are safe. That she can come to us with anything.
That knowledge, I believe, is her greatest protection. More than rules, more than warnings, more than anything I could teach her about the world's dangers. A child who knows she is unconditionally loved has somewhere to go when things go wrong. And things will go wrong.
What I'm Trying to Build in Her Before She Goes
Her identity. Her sense of self. The knowledge of who she is before the world tries to tell her.
She is a daughter of God. She is deeply loved — by us, and by a Heavenly Father who knows her by name. She is capable and kind and braver than she knows. She has a body that deserves to be protected. She has a voice worth using. She does not have to keep secrets that make her feel unsafe, and she can always, always come home.
These are not one-time lessons. They are the slow, repetitive, daily work of raising a person — said in the car, demonstrated in how we treat her, reinforced in the small moments like the one in the pool that I almost missed.
What My Parents Gave Me
Every single day before school, my mom kissed me and hugged me and said I love you. Every day, without fail. Simple and consistent, the way the best things usually are.
And every year before school, we received a priesthood blessing. A moment to be still, to be prayed over, to be sent out with something sacred rather than just a packed lunch.
I want to give my daughters both of those things. The daily, ordinary love that shows up without fanfare, and the sacred moments that mark the transitions and say: you are held by something bigger than us.
She's Not Ready for the World Yet
But she's getting there.
I saw it in the pool, in the smile on her face when she said "no secrets, remember?" — confident and kind and completely herself.
That's who I'm building her to be. One ordinary day at a time, one repeated lesson at a time, one hug and kiss and I love you at a time.
The door will open when it's time. And when it does, I want her to walk through it knowing exactly who she is and where she can always come back to.
That's all any of us can do for them. And I'm starting to believe it's enough.
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