By Therese Christensen
There was a time in my life when I worked in the field, supporting women who had survived violence. Some days were heavier than others—days when I’d find myself sitting alone in a café, trying to process what I had witnessed, feeling like the weight of their stories had followed me home.
Sometimes, I escaped into romance novels. I bought nearly a thousand Kindle books. It was a safe kind of escape—where endings were predictable, where love was uncomplicated, where everything turned out okay.
But there were days when even fiction couldn’t hold me. Days when the pain I carried wasn’t mine to tell, but still needed a place to go. I was bound by tavshedspligt—a confidentiality agreement—so I couldn’t speak the stories. I wrote instead.
I remember typing these words into the Notes app on my MacBook. At first, I thought I was writing to a future daughter. But really, I think I was writing to the women I had sat with—the girls they once were—before the harm, before the silence.
Maybe I just wanted someone, anyone, to whisper in their ear: You are enough.
🌿 A Note in Retrospect
Reading this again, years later, I notice lines that don’t sit quite right with me now. For instance, the phrase: “If he chooses you as a partner…” feels off. It implies that the woman is waiting to be chosen like her worth depends on someone else’s validation. And that’s not what I believe.
The truth is, I have always believed in a woman’s agency. That has never changed.
But when I wrote this, I was echoing the voices of women in survival mode. So many of them told me they felt lucky just to be the chosen girlfriend or wife. That kind of language can be painful to hear but it’s real. And when someone is in survival mode, logic doesn’t always reach them. What does is compassion. Understanding. A hand extended, not a lecture.
This poem wasn’t meant to be perfect. It was meant to be safe. A quiet offering to women who hadn’t yet remembered their own power– but who were always worthy of it.
To My Daughter, If Ever One Day
Baby,
I know you love him
but never make him your world.
I know you just want to be a good wife,
but never at the expense of forgetting your worth.
I know you value his input,
but never doubt your own capabilities.
I know you’re being understanding of his work,
but don’t forget—you have a life to live too.
You are his equal.
If he chooses you as a partner,
he should see you as one.
Pamper him if you must,
but know the difference between caring for a man
and raising one.
You are not his mother.
You are his wife.
There are things you cannot change about him.
Some lessons come too late to be learned.
So choose wisely.
Take your time.
Know him.
Know yourself.
Marriage is not a marathon.
It’s a daily commitment
to yourself,
to him,
to honoring what you’ve chosen
again, and again, and again.
But since it is a marathon,
you don’t step into it unprepared.
You train.
You rest.
You build your strength.
You know your pace.
You come into it whole
knowing you are bringing something worthy.
Because you are.
And if no one ever told you that
let this be the first time.
Closing Reflection
I wrote this from a place of both exhaustion and hope. And now, with more distance, I offer it again this time with gentleness for the women who are still finding their voices, and for those of us who are still unlearning what we were taught about love, power, and worth.
If this speaks to you, I hope you’ll hold onto it. Share it if it feels right. Or just let it sit quietly with you for a while.
We all deserve to be reminded that we are whole.
ThereseChristensen 