Hello Friends and Readers,
I feel very fortunate that I get to take the period between Christmas and New Year’s off without having to use holiday time. This year, I had made plans throughout the entire week—not busy, just steady. But, when illness struck, I found myself alone more than I expected, first taking care of the kids, and then reducing visits with my boyfriend because he was too ill to do anything other than lay in bed. Needless to say, I was very disappointed with how the week turned out.
I noticed, however, that in those moments on my own, I felt a lot of anxiety sort of lurking in my chest, waiting to send a cascade of icy ripples throughout my body if I couldn’t keep control of my thoughts. Some of those thought revolved around living alone. I lived on my own about 9 months total in my lifetime before I left my marriage, so this is the longest I’ve ever done it, and some days I find it really difficult to think about something happening to me or what it says about my worth to not have my days off filled with friends and family.
Largely, however, my thoughts seemed to swirl around making the most of the time off that I have by taking on projects that get pushed aside in the day-to-day or doing all the hobbies that I love or going outside for a walk or skate. Rather than feeling like it’s something I look forward to, my body felt resistant to initiate any of these activities. If I believe that I must make every moment count, I inevitably feel like a failure when reality falls short. I put so much pressure on myself, even with things that typically feel good to me, that I end up with anxiety trying make every moment meaningful.
With anxiety looming inside me, ever threatening to turn into panic, the only thing I could think to do was to keep asking my body, out loud, “How can I take care of you?” Because trying to figure out what to do to make myself feel better simply added more pressure; surely, I should know by now how to do the right things, so why aren’t I? But my body knew something my mind was too afraid to admit—that what I needed was to do less, not more: eat food that I didn’t have to make; read a romantic, witchy, emotionally intelligent book for hours; do my puzzle with music; or simply lay down and do nothing. Only then would the anxiety soften and turn into a deep sense of calm.
I dreamt a few weeks ago that Declan was crying, saying “I don’t know why I can’t do anything right.” While I did feel like it was largely a message from Little Aleesha, pulling my attention to the pressure growing inside me, I also felt a twinge of guilt because of how hard I’ve been on Declan recently and knew that he likely was feeling something similar. So I wasn’t all that surprised when Jason said he uttered those exact words during a difficult moment; yet, I was heartbroken all the same, my chest heaving while tears made the drive home dangerously blurry. I’d gone and done the one thing I hoped I never would as a parent.
But how could I make him feel any different, when I’m still in my own head, replaying scripts and scratching at wounds from 30+ years ago? Not only do I feel pressured to optimize my time at work and in my personal realm, I feel it in the parenting realm as well. Screen time, getting outside, taking classes, spending time with friends, getting along with siblings, eating properly, doing homework, reading together—there’s so many areas where I don’t meet my expectations of a good mom, so many things I wish I did better for my kids.
When they fall short or struggle, which they do and will continue to do, I tell myself the story that it’s all my fault for not doing enough. I push harder, demand more, and heap more pressure onto an already fragile system. Of course he feels like he’s not doing anything right; I won’t let either of us be imperfectly human without throwing on the weight of my judgement. I am terrified that, if I stop, they won’t have the skills necessary to become whole and healthy adults.
But what if they don’t need more instruction? What if they don’t need me to tell them the ‘right’ things to do? What if my efforts to make them ‘good people’ is actually backfiring because I’m unable to see the amazing humans that they already are? This past weekend, each night after Sage went to bed, I would come out and sit on the couch next to Declan without trying to do anything or talk about anything. Just…being. Each time, my little guy, who says he hates hugs, would wrap up in his blanket and curl into me, and we just said silly nothings to each other until he went to sleep.
I think I over-complicate my own wellbeing, and by extension, the wellbeing of my children. I have a lot of rules in my head for how to “Be Well.” While most of the things on the list are actually quite lovely and beneficial for me, it comes at a cost when I start performing wellness. I’ll ignore when my body tells me to rest—first through resistance, then the stirrings of anxiety, then finally panic—and I convince myself that it’s because I haven’t met the expectations I have of myself or done enough to feel better. And, of course, I’m unintentionally passing that on.
Children become a mirror that invites us to see our own wounds more clearly. When Declan said he didn’t know why he couldn’t do anything right, he was reflecting back to me something I felt deeply as a child, and still do today. It is wildly painful to hear him say that; yet, I am glad that he feels safe enough to tell us about his inner world, rather than keep quiet like I did, and that I am able enough to hear and reflect on what he’s saying.
He’s inviting me to soften into the present, to release the expectations I don’t have the capacity to meet, and to enjoy parenthood rather than perform parenthood. He is reminding me to meet his bids for connection and witness his life with delight, curiousity, and love. Deep down, he needs to know that I care about the things that matter to him, even when I don’t understand, and that I trust that he’s got this. Everything else is supplementary.
Perhaps wellness isn’t a prize we achieve when we’ve done enough to earn it; perhaps it’s all our imperfect attempts to show up and ask, “How can I take care of you right now?” and trusting that’s enough.
How have you taken care of yourself this season?
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