Go deep within and sprint back toward her in your mind; the girl child self. Watch her from a careful distance through eyes that have witnessed her own eventualities, searching her skin for scars she hasn’t yet earned, faint fingerprints of lovers still unmet. Smile quietly when you see her exhale a large breath and jut out a tiny tummy, imagining how her body might wear pregnancy. See the hair in a messy, shiny ponytail that flops around on top of her head, pushed out of her eyes, before the haircut that will strip it all away, taking a tiny piece of her spirit.
You’ll want to warn her, prepare her. But these experiences will mold her; they will teach her of her worth, of the power lying in wait in the marrow of her hips. Give the only advice you can: tell her the only touch she can ever fully trust is her own, and sometimes not even then.