The light, bright and heavy, slams down into the room. Women and men in blue pull the delicate being(she) through the portal. Constant wails bounce off the wall into the her earlobe. Placed in the arms of her carrier, beside her is the familiar voice of a bearded fellow. One thing is sure: those who stand behind it provide it with protection and love, unconditionally. . .Or something else?

Being a parent is status. If life were a video game, then you just jumped four levels, and now you are closer to the highly respectable in society. A little angel, whose conception was merely a simple consequence of pleasure, could provide two lost wanderers with not just a hint of hope and beauty but also a sense of meaning and purpose.

The little thing knows she is safe; she is welcomed with smiles and kisses. She is the center of attention; her cry is met with immediate care; the world is at her mercy; and her parents are humble servants to her every need...for now.

Things start to change; her legs and arms begin to stretch, not shrinking back. The beautiful motion of the TV has now been replaced with the slow, boring drag of the white board. She is met with others like herself. Doesn't feel as special anymore. In losing this specialness, there is a search for something else: herself. She starts having likes and dislikes to separate her from those who unconsciously take away what makes her special. She begins to develop a personality.

But quickly, she notices that there is a battle at home. The love and protection of her parents is slighty faded. She is now under the periodic supervision of a lady, whom they call nanny. Nanny doesn't smile, not like Mom did. But with the nanny, her personality still grows.

Let's imagine a straight line running through the ground. It's white and pure. It's in perfect harmony with itself, but gradually, it separates, and as it does, the light begins to dim at each separate path. The more it separates, the darker the lights get—that's childhood.

What is love? A word thrown around like a basketball with no hoop. The truth is, love is many things with regards giving it. So let's take a different approach; what does it mean to receive love? Money, sex, hugs... A lot of those will pop up from the shaking machine that is our brain, but in the midst of all that loud racketing of thoughts, there seems to be a ball, bigger than all those popped thoughts, that rarely finds its way into articulation; it is acceptance.

Acceptance is to be seen as we are. To be understood as the unique creatures we are.

The being displays her newly found personalities but quickly finds that the acceptance she once got as a given isn't stable anymore. Instead, expectations fall her way. She see a clear distinction between what she is becoming and what she ought to become.

Not being hypocrites; rather, the parents just want the child to be the best they can be (the best they want him to be). Dreams and ideas they had for it; it's grades, university, job, grandkids... She didn't realize it early on, but her parents had other plans than the ones she had set out for herself.

Her soul has urges and callings that are within reach, but dare she mention such aspirations, she will meet the same shovel her grandparents found useful for her parents.

With your heart buried, all you have is your head. And all your head does is navigate what makes sense. In the heart is a beautiful, white, yet soft rope that links you to your fulfillment; it's quite a sensitive thing. The bitterness of the world can block us from our hearts, and in doing so, we go where it's safe: our brains. The mushy thing that knows how to act as everyone else does, keeping us safe and protected in the group.

Quickly enough, it becomes evident to her that her parents despise her heart and its callings because her warm, beating heart takes away the glory they had envisioned for it.

She realizes that to be loved by her parents, she has to sacrifice a substantial part of herself.

As this happens, a subconsciousness contract is pulled by spirit; either the being gives up his naive wishes to diverge or loses his parent's love.

As this happens, I'm guessing we can go back to the question posed earlier. Do parents love their kids. If a person shows herself to you and reject it of love,  only returning the love when they mutate into your expectation of them. It can be said that what is loved isn't the person itself, rather what you wish the person be. (Loving the you that you've placed in them).

And this falls into the notions of parents identifying their kids, on some fundamental level, as an extension of themselves, rather than their own individual.

This is not suggesting parents don't provide love how they know best, because a number do. But a lot of traditional parenting involves forcing the child to understand the parent at their best and worst. While the child only exists within a narrow lane of the vision that has been created for them, We can quickly see an imbalance—a destructive one. In households like this, the child is made to grow, but yet they remain small; "small is safe, small is secured, and small is my love to you.".

When we don't see ourselves, how can we expect to see our children? We remain blinded by what we wish them to be, and they remain condemned to our wishes.

So what does it mean to give love? It is meeting the other where they are and  who they are. It's letting go of expectations and starting again.

We all have unique paths, and the beauty of parenting will be to love the child towards where the paths that calls them.