The Still Space

I’ve been feeling paralyzed.

I sit down to write and no words come. I’ve made writing too important, each word too precious. I have too many snippets of ideas but they’re all over the place, lacking a meaningful through line.

The kids play in the other room. I want to join them because it would be fun. But then I worry about stifling their creativity and turning into a helicopter parent. I feel like I “should” join them because that’s what a “good” parent would do, but I really want to sit and knit.

I want to work on The Still Space. But I don’t know which idea is the “right” one, the one that will actually “work.” The words of business “experts” ring in my ears and I become disconnected from my own knowing, immobilized.

One of the things I’m really good at is seeing all sides of the story. But it can really backfire when I’m trying to figure out what I want.

Around and around and around my thoughts go. Should I? Shouldn’t I? What’s the best thing to do? What’s the right thing to do?

 

Before having kids, I spent my entire life in school as a student or a teacher. Other people set the criteria for what was good, better, best (and bad. But failing wasn’t an option for me.) The road map was clear. I didn’t always ace everything but the path to the A+ gold star was neatly laid out in front of me. And it was expected that I was going to reach for those stars.

But now, that neat, singular path is gone. There are hundreds of “experts” with thousands of maps, each claiming to be the right one.

Parenting maps, marriage maps, keeping-the-house-clean maps, career maps. So many people claiming to have the answer, the secret sauce.

 

It’s paralyzing.

 

And then I remember that it is my choice. I don’t have to listen to anyone else but me (well, and my husband). I get to choose.

 

I get to choose how I want to connect with my kids.

I get to choose how I want to show up in my marriage.

I get to choose how I want to use my career to make a difference in the world.

 

But do have to choose.

 

Not the “have to” of the principal wagging his finger at me. But the “deeply need to” that comes from my soul.

I do not want to be paralyzed. I do not want to be overwhelmed by a million “experts” with their “one right way.”

I want to move forward. I want to make my own map. I want to hear my own voice and follow my own compass.

I choose to connect with those I love. I choose to believe in the wisdom my own voice. I choose to know where I want to go and take action to get there.

 

To do that, I have to let go of my fear of getting it wrong. I have to be willing to choose a path.

 

And I have to trust myself.

 

 

This isn’t the post I meant to write.

If you look at the beginning (down there below the line), you’ll see that it doesn’t line up as a thesis for the “reveal” at the end.

I thought I was going to write about finding time to play with my kids, and finding a way back to childlike wonder from the world of adulthood. That’s the lesson that I thought was waiting for me at the end of the post.

But something has always been lurking underneath that story. There was a piece of it that I hid from, that I was ashamed of. There was always a vague sense of unease that I didn’t want to look at.

I didn’t really want to talk about it. But the first phrase kept repeating itself in my mind whenever I’d sit down to write. So finally I wrote down the words, even though it scared me to commit them to paper.

And as I wrote (always by hand first so as to short-circuit my inner critic), something else unfolded. A completely new knowing.

In telling my story to myself, I was able to step back and see the events of the last 6 ½ years from a different perspective. And I discovered a new story. The events of the past cannot change, but the pause for reflection allowed me to shift my understanding of what they mean to me.

And it is not too bold to say that this new story has reshaped the way I will see and connect with my child forever.

 

I am beyond grateful for this deeper understanding, this truer vision.

*****

I have a hard time connecting with my daughter (and sweetie, if you’re reading this some time in the future, know that I love you love you always always, and that much of the work I’ve done has been to try and find my way back to you—a way to connect with and open myself to you.)

I used to think, before I had kinds, that this parenting thing would come so easily to me. After all, pretty much every job I’d ever had was designed and chosen to allow me to spend as much time with kids as possible. Even in elementary school I’d help my mom make the snacks and play with the younger kids that went to the after school care program she ran.

I thought it would be easy. And I thought that it would be fun. I connected with kids, they liked me—a lot, and right away. I “got” them.

But then my daughter was born and I left teaching to take care of her full-time.

 

And I fell apart.

 

I couldn’t relax. I couldn’t enjoy my little one. I could barely leave the house. I wouldn’t let my mom go back home.

I was utterly terrified, a deep, dark panic that welled up in my stomach and vibrated through my entire body.

 

I wanted so badly to feel that rush of love and tenderness that I was promised. And when all I felt was terror and panic, I felt deeply ashamed.

 

I thought something was wrong with me.

 

And the weight of this shame, this not being good enough, pulled me deeper and deeper into doubt and anxiety, further and further away from my child.

It was over six years ago, but if I let myself, I can recall instantly what it felt like—to be so widely disconnected from someone whom I loved so much. It was terribly confusing. How I could love this being and yet not be able to enjoy or express it.

 

The terror was larger than my love.

 

I know now that I was suffering from PPD caused by a less than idea labor and delivery, being the first of my friends to have children, the sheer weight of the expectations I placed on my self, and wildly out of control hormones.

 

Did I know what PPD was then? Yes.

Did I know that I had it? Nope.

 

And to this day, I wonder why. Why didn’t I get help?

 

And to this day, I am deeply grateful for my daughter’s tenacity and determination.

She is a very spirited child. She lives out loud and is very rarely ever quiet. And for the longest time I blamed myself for what I perceived as her wildness, her lack of control. I saw it as another mark of my failure as a mother—if only I had done more or done it differently, she would be easier to deal with. Milder. Less.

 

But she is not. And she never will be. Thank you thank you thank you god.

 

For now, just now, as I write these words, I can see the exquisite blessing in her wildness, the gift in her swirling energy.

 

She called me back to myself.

 

She grabbed hold of me, even though I could not at first grab on to her, and she refuses to let me go. She loves me enough for both of us, and she will not let me slip slide away from her, away from myself.

 

Her love refuses to let me hide.

 

It was not my fault, not my failing that hurt her into being so riotous and self-willed.

It was a miracle.

A miracle of destiny, a divine paring of temperaments. She needs me. I need her. Together we will learn balance—not in the common understanding of balance as stasis, of something broken that needs to be fixed, but in a coming to wholeness, for both of us.

 

She is not broken. I did not break her.

I am not broken. I don’t need to be ashamed.

 

For the first time, I truly see her.

 

For the first time, my heart swells with love, free from the constriction of shame and doubt.

 

We are a gift of love, perfectly matched, one for the other.