So how do we balance? How do we quantify what’s really worth whatever energy we may have left to muster up? Which of your convictions are actually preferences, and what of your opinions are more like self-serving desires? How do we know when to pipe up, and when to “let it go”, and are there any brown paper bags anywhere to breathe into when we’re so fired up, we’re going to implode? At least it’s my mouth doing the smashing. I’m not a person who feels the need to throw a plate.
Our jobs as parents is to see our children through their very youngest traumas, to being the rock that they can fall on as they continue to stay the course of their own lives. Our past hurt and pain should serve as guiding stars. As emotional navigators that we can use as the compass to help steer these littles through adulthood back to right.
Because what my 8-year-old self – the one with the clicky heels on the asphalt, with the big hair, and the credit cards, and the independence she craved – didn’t account for was loneliness. Was success without someone to share it with. Was accomplishments and accolades that threatened to sit idly alone on the shelf, covered in dust.
Perspective is key. And lemme tell ya, I’m prone to meltdowns, breakdowns. Sadness. Frustration. Sunday morning, I spent a solid twenty minutes sobbing in the bathroom. And then I washed my face, had a good, long chat with Jan who brought me from a 10 back to a 5, and went back to my day.
Today, I went to town, just down the road, in my car, with the breeze.
And I saw the horses in the meadows, and the ripples in the lakes, and the greens in the trees.
Maybe you’re just giving in that you were who you were before, and there’s a calming constant in not changing at all. To you – kudos. Because this path of self-discovery I’ve ultimately found myself on is bending, and winding, and intimidating. Dark in some areas. And brighter in others. When we step out after this thing is over, it’ll be interesting to see if the changes stick. Or if I’ll hit the next button on the playlist and find myself in a totally different genre.
I used to hate the phone. I used to be the one that was like – don’t call. Send me a text. Now, I’m desperate for human interaction
There’s a reason teachers spend decades honing their craft. They were cut out for meltdowns, misunderstood concepts; the patience of a teacher stretches far beyond anything I can conceivably construct in my mind. They are saints.
What do we think we know? What do we think we know more that we can pass judgement onto someone else.