Eighty Letters

There’s a saying I only became aware of when our first child was born: that the firstborn of any family is highly likely to resemble one or both of their parents. Most often the saying is meant to be about physical appearance—how they share similar traits and features with their parents—but the version I’m most familiar with is that “every firstborn daughter resembles her father,” also in temperament and behavior.

Our firstborn is, in my opinion and without a single doubt, the epitome of this saying. Ever since she turned 13, the similarities in how we think, act, and behave have been so close to what I remember of myself at that age that every time we talk and she shares some of the happenings and goings-on in her life, I can’t help but feel like she’s telling me my own life back to me, albeit from a different gender perspective. It’s uncanny.

You might also think that, having the “advantage” of already having been there and done that, I’d be better positioned to help her navigate the (very) turbulent years of teenagerhood and young adulthood. But what’s that other saying about the cobbler’s children going barefoot? You’d think that having already experienced the same pains and sharp edges, I’d be able to explain the pitfalls and perhaps soften the blows by sharing my hard-earned lessons. One would think so. But at that same age, I wasn’t prepared to welcome constructive feedback or accept the hard truths that don’t come easy when we’re much younger. It isn’t all in vain, though, because despite all the conversations and discussions that often feel one-sided, every now and then there’s that sign that peeks out from behind the clouds—that she’s listening. And even if she’s reluctant at first and not willing yet to concede, I see her make decisions that get her back on better footing and back on track for her journey.

Case in point: when I graduated from college a couple of decades ago, I was one of only three people earning that same major and degree out of a class of 500 or so. Such a small percentage out of all those people graduating with similar degrees that I automatically assumed all the jobs “out there” were mine for the picking. I felt like I was hot shit! Here’s where another well-known proverb comes in handy: pride comes before a fall.

I felt like I was hot shit!

In my case, it took about eight or nine months before the inevitable fall, when all of my job applications were either rejected (too young, lack of practical experience) or just ignored. I remember very clearly that my older sister paid out of her own pocket for the special paper, the envelopes, the ink, and the stamps so that I could print and mail my applications—this was, after all, a couple of decades ago. I mailed a grand total of 80 applications. And then I just sat home and waited. And waited. And waited some more. With every passing day without a response—days that eventually became weeks, and then months—my pride and my finances kept getting knocked down another notch. I kept seeing my friends back home from college talking about their brand-new jobs and careers, and all I had to show was an ever-growing pile of rejection letters and reminders from my school that I had yet to finish paying off my loans.

Through it all, my parents and siblings did their best to support me, giving me hours of advice and coaching, which in the beginning I was quick to shoot down and outright dismiss. After all, I was the owner of a brand spanking new degree. I was THE shit! I have to give them credit for patiently waiting for my ego to calm itself down and for reality to sink in but, more importantly, for me to finally hit rock bottom and finally be open to seeing the things I so stubbornly refused to see and admit. That I was NOT the shit. That I needed to be less choosy about the roles I was applying to, and get ready to roll up my sleeves and start from the bottom up. Sure enough, once I stopped looking for the types of jobs I truly wasn’t yet qualified to do, job offers started showing up. And while it wasn’t exactly what I had imagined my first paying job out of college would be, it was a start, and the rest was then up to me. I could either let that one job define me and my future, or I could use it as the first step toward a journey.

I was NOT the shit

Our firstborn graduated from college two years ago, and since then she’s bounced between jobs and gigs here and there, trying to find her own path while also coming to terms with the gap between what she thought life after college would be and what the cold reality is today. For the last two years I have witnessed her going through pretty much the same path I painfully walked myself, as if I were sitting comfortably at home watching a movie I’ve seen before. I have found myself in the same role my parents once played for me, tempering advice and coaching with patience—some days more successfully than others—planting the proverbial seed and watering it every now and then, just enough to see it take its first shot at breaking through hard-packed soil and reaching out in search of the much-needed sunlight.

So while I can vouch for the saying that your firstborn might look, talk, and behave much like you, I also know that the potential locked within them, if well cared for and guided with the right amount of tender understanding and support, can take them much further than you may ever reach. And that’s a very good thing in my book.