Raising my baby girl into toddlerhood feels like a journey through my own cherished childhood memories. Constant flashbacks transport me to my own experiences as a child.

I recall the joy of pressing my face against the soft couch cushions, exuberantly playing on the sofa, and the thrill of exploring new heights by climbing wherever I could, often disregarding the rules, just to catch a glimpse of the world from a different angle.

As I watch my toddler daughter’s every move, a profound connection forms. This connection often brings tears to my eyes.

While my own memories from that time might not be crystal clear—fading are the thoughts, intentions, and specifics—I do vividly recall the sheer happiness of being immersed in each fleeting moment. The simple and unadulterated joy of those moments remains etched in my mind. I can still feel the rush of excitement as I scaled a chair, stood upright with triumph, and beheld the calendar’s captivating image of a waterfall from an entirely new and intimate perspective.

I’ve heard tales, and there are vague recollections, of my frequent tumbles during those early years. Observing my daughter, Fei, I foresee similar adventures in her future.

In revisiting the past, I inevitably gravitate towards the pleasant memories, but I’m mindful that Fei is her own individual. As much as I try to empathize with how my own mother might have felt when I was that small, I acknowledge that I am not her, and Fei is not me.