Remember This

A few weeks ago, Aviana, Anika and I went to the Hozier concert at Fenway Park in downtown Boston. As the concert got going I was taken aback that nearly everyone had their phones pointed at the stage. Small clips, your favorite song—fine. But the whole show? It struck me as proof of how much the younger generation struggles to be present without documenting it.

At the same time, I recognized that I, too, wanted to document the moment—but not the performance. What I wanted to capture was my daughters.

So often, I see them wrestle with taking up space in the world. I remind them constantly. When they leave in the mornings, I yell, “Remember to take up space today!”—usually followed by an eye roll. But I wonder if they know what I mean: what it looks like for a woman to be unapologetic—in her body, her emotions, her needs, her opinions. To own her power.

I can’t fully articulate it in words, but I know it when I see it, and I know it when I feel it. It’s magic. It’s the purest form of contentment. As a mother, watching your child step into themselves with grace and confidence is one of life’s most rewarding moments.

The concert itself was the hottest four hours of my life. We danced in 100-degree heat, plus humidity, plus 30,000 people. It felt like being trapped in a massive, wet sauna surrounded by radiating bodies. People danced, sang, and wiped sweat. Makeup melted, clothes clung. Vanity disappeared. Music remained.

Then Hozier paused to speak. He reflected on the state of the world, on the connections between American and Irish independence, on the sacrifices made so we could live in a free democracy where all have the right to prosper.

The crowd erupted in agreement at every pause. And yet, I couldn’t help noticing the disconnect. This was a mostly white, young, economically secure crowd—people who, in truth, are not actively working to protect the freedoms of minorities or to confront genocide happening now. They are living privilege and, often, unwilling to change the power dynamics that benefit them.

It made me wonder: what is the point of famous people saying these things if the cheers don’t translate to action? If ideals don’t become practice? (I include myself here—I, too, live with privilege and struggle to find meaningful ways to create change.)

But as my thoughts churned, I looked back at my daughters. They were clapping, whistling, yelling out. And I realized: this is where change begins. With awareness. With cheering. With a spark. And from there, it grows.

At that moment, I only saw them. I could see their light without the weight the world tries to place on them. They weren’t just connecting with the crowd; they were connecting with their own voices, their values. And as the music started again, they danced more freely. Free of society’s expectations. Free of their struggle. Free of the self-critical voice they often carry.

I was proud. Proud of who they are, proud of what they value, proud of the good they will create.

And then, like a lightning bolt, it hit me again: moments like this are fleeting.

I am preparing for the second greatest change of my life—second only to becoming their mother. Soon, I will no longer be raising my children. Soon they’ll go to concerts with friends, partners and hopefully together. Soon they’ll decide how they want to show up in the world, what causes they’ll fight for.

I’ll still watch, but from afar. I’ll hear their stories in phone calls, in check-ins, in the moments when they still need their mom. I’ll see glimpses in photos. I will hopefully become a welcomed guest in their life.

I know this is right, but my chest aches at the thought. 

As my breath returned to rhythm and I wiped tears from my face, I put my phone away, centered myself in the moment before me, and whispered to them both:

“Remember this.”