Sometimes our children’s dreams begin with someone else’s magic number, only to discover their own constellation along the way. And this is really a story about outgrowing lucky numbers—the ones we chase, the ones we inherit, and the ones our kids eventually outgrow.

The Power of 13: When Dreams Take Root

My ten-year-old daughter Skylar had one obsession: beating Taylor Swift at singing the National Anthem at a sports game. When she accomplished this at the same age as Taylor, age 11, it wasn’t defeat she felt, but validation.

Those dreams were laid years before, including attending the Taylor Swift concert and visiting Nashville. Getting her first and second guitar. All Skylar wanted was to be like Taylor Swift.

I think she was serious when she wanted to move to Nashville, but we ignored that request. And then she pivoted, wishing to sing at the Phillies game—no age game here, to keep things even.

If Taylor did it, so would she.

It’s not like she made this obvious or anything. She kept these dreams as tight-lipped as she did her practicing. How could you do the things she did and not practice? It wasn’t until years later that I realized she was mentally going over this stuff—she could have taught a course in mental preparation long before I even knew what it was.

But I wasn’t mentally prepared for this dream of hers. “If that’s what you want,” I told her, “you arrange it with Pop-Pop.” To my horror, the plans were made.

And I do mean horror. I’m not a stage mom. And I don’t draw attention to myself. (Yes, even with the blog, I’m no Taylor Swift when it comes to promotion.) Let’s just say I was the mom who had the lessons to learn from Taylor and her daughter.

This was not my let-me-teach-you moment. It was my moment to learn from the masters.

December 22, 2015: When Fear Meets Magic

As the day approached, Alex and I could barely function. We’d guided our girls through over 50 theater performances, okay, not yet, but soon enough, but this felt different. This was the dream she’d been chasing since learning Taylor Swift’s story. Oh, yes, I did buy her a book on Taylor, which spilled all the details she needed to know to follow the dots to Taylor Swift’s success.

There’s such a thing as preparation anxiety. I know because I lived it. Between coordinating outfits, voice lessons, getting the starting pitch (okay, breathe, Stephanie), hair appointments for both girls on the big day, traffic, school, and don’t forget making sure she doesn’t get sick.

This was all too much. I wasn’t a singer. I couldn’t even sing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, oh no, if only this could be someone else’s child. Someone who knew what they were getting themselves into.

I was in hot water. The kind where if your kid has a question like, “Will there be a sound check?” I’m responding like any parent does, “No, of course not. Why would they make you do that?” And then, up they come and hand her the mic and say, “Sound check.”

Everyone’s on cue except for me. And what this is really saying is, this isn’t a typical childhood dream that I can help you with. You’re on your own. And what parent can say that to their 11-year-old? I’m not the parent you think I am.

Skylar and Alexandra went to the center court sideline. Alexandra played the D, and Skylar walked up and sang right in the middle of all those players shooting baskets.

I held my breath. She did it. No problem. Not for her, but for me, yes, there was a problem.

How was I going to get through this dream? And then the next? My heart wasn’t made for this type of stage fright.

And when she got up there for real?

Neither Alex nor I was steady enough to comfort the other. Alex’s hand was shaking so hard I could hardly notice my own—yup. We were in trouble. Luckily, our eight-year-old Alexandra wasn’t there to bear witness. She stood at the center court sideline, and gave Skylar the starting pitch—was that too much pressure for my youngest?

I can’t speak for that moment in time. We couldn’t breathe, I know I wasn’t listening, and I wasn’t sure where to look. Our friend came over to take pictures—the Sixers had granted him courtside access, and he whispered, “Look up.” It was my daughter’s face that filled that screen; She looked like an angel—I gave her birth, this moment gave her life. And then, he said, “Listen to that cheering.” We obediently looked at section C-15, going crazy.

She walked off the court and joined Alexandra, and then we were all back together.

When we got to the tunnel, Skylar’s first words were: “I thought there’d be more people.”

In the car, she couldn’t stop smiling. Her cheeks hurt from joy.

The Seeds Were Always There

The signs were always there. At four, Skylar was a flower girl wearing itchy wings I had to wrap with napkins. But she wasn’t there to be like the bride, Skylar wanted to know—what’s the name of that? “It’s a microphone,” I said.

She whispered and pleaded, “Can I say something? I want to use it.”

Kids and microphones? Oof! This was going south. So I redirected her to Pop-Pop. (Let it be his problem.) Instead, she walked up and started singing the National Anthem. I couldn’t breathe. It was over. I hadn’t wanted to videotape her most embarrassing moment ever. Instead, I missed her greatest triumph. She sounded like she’d been singing her entire life.

August 31st: Finding Her Own New Constellation

Years later, as I’ve had three move-ins and move-outs at Belmont and now, as we’re packing up for the last one, Skylar is entering her senior year at Belmont University—she’s got her national anthems, Nashville, and all of her Taylor Swift dreams have come true.

On August 31st—the reverse of Taylor Swift’s December 13th birthday—Skylar will turn 21. You’d think this is the moment she’s been waiting for: Taylor Swift never wrote a song about being 21, only 22.

But Skylar doesn’t need to chase the number 13 anymore.

Somehow, among all those growing up, we’ve both learned she has her own star to follow. Now it’s no longer Taylor Swift’s 13, but her own lucky number 31.

Somehow, she’s a songwriting major with no interest in being in front of a microphone anymore.

What was that childhood? Did I dream it up? Somewhere along the way, did I believe Skylar’s dreams would come true? That if it were good enough for Taylor Swift, it would be good enough for Skylar?

And who is learning the most here? Me or Skylar?

I watch old dreams slip away and witness the new woman unfolding. And I no longer understand any of this. Dreams are only the seeds we sow to get us to our present, and then it’s time to let them go.

How has my daughter somehow known this all along, while I still hold onto the old childhood dreams, hoping to make them real again?

When Lucky Numbers Become Stepping Stones

Skylar taught me what it feels like to come alive in front of a microphone—not for herself, but for me, watching from the sidelines.

What she was able to accomplish, I never could. It was her growth, her path, and I was there with the shaky hand, the fluttering heart, hardly there for the ride. But it was the greatest gift of all. To watch Skylar follow her dreams to become the woman that she is today.

Standing courtside now with the same awe and stage fright, I realize my daughter is old enough to live her own dreams. The lucky number that started her journey—13—was never her destination. It was her launching pad.

Watching her find her own numbers, her own dreams—that’s the legacy moment I never saw coming.

Maybe outgrowing lucky numbers is just part of growing into who we’re meant to be.

There’s no ending, no final image. This story plays on in my head. I don’t want it to end, not yet.