written by Claire McMurray

As we ready ourselves for a new year, many of us like to think of it as a blank slate we hope to fill with successes and accomplishments. But I’d like to make a case for the beauty of our mistakes. We all know we are going to make them, so we might as well learn from them, right? Thanks to my daughter, I certainly have.

My youngest daughter, JJ, was five when she made her first real mistake. Her older sister had just built a fort out of paper and sticks and then watched, glassy-eyed, as it tumbled to the ground. JJ shot her sister a sly grin before pushing the ha, ha, ha icon on her new speech generating device. When her sister ran upstairs in tears, JJ didn’t even have the good grace to look contrite. She just kept on smiling.

Until her device, JJ had little in the way of communication skills. Her rare syndrome had stolen her words at a very young age, as well as the ability to use her hands. But her eyes worked just fine—as evidenced by the copious amounts of side eye she always shot me—and the eye-gaze device was the best way she could express herself. Even if on this particular occasion, what she was expressing was mean-spirited and petty.

Despite the casual cruelty, as I dried my oldest daughter’s tears, I found myself secretly rooting for JJ and her perfectly timed electronic laughter. The machine had given her, not just the means to express her basic wants and needs, but a way to make larger choices—and not always the right ones. In a nutshell, it gave her options. To say the right thing or the wrong thing. To express kindness or cruelty. To make things better or worse for the people around her.

My daughter’s syndrome is progressive, severe, and life-shortening. Even if she manages to avoid the many dangers lurking in the dark recesses of her chromosomes, as an adult she will remain at home or in a group setting that offers complete care. Many avenues will remain cut off to her, including those that lead to major missteps and miscalculations. My daughter will likely never choose the wrong college, wrong career, or wrong house. She won’t regret marrying someone she doesn’t love, moving to a city she dislikes, or having a baby before she is ready. She will never make mistakes so large that they alter the course of her life.

But now, thanks to her device, she can make the smaller ones. They might not be the kind that keep her up at night, but they can still change someone’s mood or the direction of their day. Don’t get me wrong—JJ often uses her device in caring and compassionate ways. She asks after sick relatives, suggests sending gifts to friends, and tells me that she loves me. But though it might seem strange, I find just as much joy in her wrong turns. To me, it means there is a freedom in her life that wasn’t there before.

I no longer take this freedom for granted either. As JJ’s mother, I am often thrust into positions of unwanted responsibility, debating questions no one else can answer. How much do I tinker with this or that medication? Should we go on an outing and risk catching an illness or stay home and be bored? Is it a good idea to wait another day and see if JJ’s symptoms improve or take her to the doctor right away? Sometimes, it’s impossible to make the right choice—either because I don’t have all the information or because the right choice doesn’t exist. In these times, I try to focus on what my daughter and her device have taught me: A mistake isn’t always the worst thing that can happen to us. Sometimes, it’s just the price we pay for our freedom.

Claire McMurray, Ph.D., holds a doctorate from Yale and worked as an academic before she left the workforce to care for her youngest daughter. She has degrees in French and German and lived in both France and Germany. She loves to read, write, run, and hunt for treasures in thrift stores. She runs a blog called I Don't Know How You Do It, has had articles published on parenting sites and in literary magazines, and has won several writing contests for her creative nonfiction. She has a story in the We Are Brave Together anthology, Becoming Brave Together.