If I should have a daughter, instead of 'Mom,' she's gonna call

In the luminous and tender words of Sarah Kay, the poet of compassion and wonder, we find a truth as ancient as the bond between mother and child: “If I should have a daughter, instead of ‘Mom,’ she’s gonna call me ‘Point B,’ because that way she knows that no matter what happens, at least she can always find her way to me. And I’m going to paint solar systems on the backs of her hands so she has to learn the entire universe before she can say, ‘Oh, I know that like the back of my hand.’” These words, rich with imagery and love, are not merely the musings of a poet—they are a declaration of guidance, curiosity, and infinite connection. Kay speaks to the eternal role of the parent, the teacher, the guardian: to be a fixed point of light in a child’s journey through the vastness of life.

Sarah Kay, a modern spoken-word poet, first shared these lines in her celebrated piece “B (If I Should Have a Daughter),” which she performed in her TED Talk “If I should have a daughter…” in 2011. The poem, though contemporary in voice, is ancient in spirit. It belongs to the long lineage of maternal wisdom passed through generations—not in commands, but in symbols and metaphors, in stories that teach both strength and tenderness. In calling herself “Point B,” Kay redefines motherhood not as ownership, but as orientation. She will not be a destination to hold her child still, but a landmark to help her find her way—steady, luminous, enduring.

The ancients would have understood this deeply. In the myths of Greece, the goddess Athena guided heroes not by carrying them upon her back, but by granting them wisdom and courage to walk their own paths. In the East, parents were often likened to stars—ever constant, though distant enough to let their children navigate by their own will. Sarah Kay’s “Point B” echoes that same sacred truth: love does not confine; it illuminates. To love a child is not to hold her fast, but to help her find her way home, no matter how far she roams.

And then comes the second image—the solar systems painted on her hands. It is a vision of wonder, of education, of reverence for knowledge. A mother who paints the cosmos upon her daughter’s palms is one who insists that before she claims mastery—before she dares to say she knows something “like the back of her hand”—she must first behold the mystery and vastness of existence. It is a call to humility, to curiosity, to awe. Kay teaches that knowledge should never breed arrogance, but rather reverence. The universe is not something to be conquered, but to be learned and loved.

There is a story that mirrors this wisdom: the tale of Hypatia of Alexandria, the great philosopher and astronomer of the ancient world. Hypatia’s father taught her to look at the stars not as mere points of light, but as symbols of harmony and order. She became a teacher herself, guiding others to question, to seek, to wonder. Her mind spanned the heavens, but her spirit remained grounded in kindness and integrity. Like Sarah Kay’s imagined daughter, Hypatia learned the universe “on the backs of her hands”—not to boast of knowledge, but to honor the beauty of creation.

From Sarah Kay’s imagery emerges a timeless lesson: to nurture and to teach is to prepare another soul not just to live, but to live aware. Whether one is a parent, a mentor, or a friend, the greatest gift is not protection from the world, but perspective within it. Teach others where to find the light when all seems dark. Teach them to love learning as a way of loving life. Teach them to carry curiosity in their hearts the way travelers carry compasses—trusting that as long as they know where Point B is, they will never truly be lost.

So, O listener, let these words settle deep within you. Be someone’s Point B—a place of return, of love unshaken, of wisdom that guides but does not bind. And paint the solar systems on your own hands, that you may never forget the vastness of what remains to be learned. For this is what Sarah Kay teaches us: that love is a map, not a cage; that knowledge is a journey, not an end. And in the end, the sweetest legacy we can leave is not the road we walked, but the light we left to guide another.