Fragile Starts

What is false and what is true? 

Who am I and what's the point?

I overthink these sorts of questions in the midst of laundry and nature walks with my toddlers and preschool lesson planning and bowtie sales. I think and I read and I so want to learn how to live well. To live whole.

Recently, a book was recommended to me by a friend that focused largely on the idea of false selves. This wasn't a new concept, but one that seemed to require my attention, since it was the fourth or fifth time the topic had been sat upon my lap. The concept of false selves resonates as truth to me: the idea that we learn patterns of coping, ways of fitting in, methods of earning praise and respect, all of which become compulsive, defining, illusory selves. Longing above all else for love and belonging, we become whomever we think will get the most love and belonging. Often, that "whomever" is only a mist of our truest self. 

For me, scholastic achievement - then achievement in general - and being the "good girl" have historically been selves that I've clung to with ferocity. Very early on, I identified worth with accomplishment and love and pleasure with following rules. I became addicted to "doing the right thing" and being an overachiever. I loved the accolades and became increasingly sure in my identity as a "good girl". I wanted to be the best at everything I did, or at least appear that way. Appearance was key.

Through truly praise-worthy accomplishments, several bouts of depression and lots of normal life in between, I remained deeply attached to these identities of doing right and being capable. In and of themselves, these qualities were not and are not harmful. But somewhere along the line, they became consuming, overly-defining and imprisoning. I was not just someone who had a good work ethic, was intelligent and resourceful - I had to do everything well; I had to get straight A's; I had to appear put together. I was controlled by my "Yes", ruled by my need to always show up, take on more and more and more and never let down. 

Or else? 

Or else...

Or else, people wouldn't like me. I'd be found out, not enough. Friends wouldn't call back and nobody would show up at the party and God would be disappointed and my life wouldn't have any meaning and I'd be alone, unloved. 

Doing defined my being. 

It wasn't until recently that I've been able to start seeing through the mist of these identities. It wasn't until tragedy struck my life that these false selves revealed just how strong their grips were. And it wasn't until I found myself still, incapable of doing and accomplishing, totally broken and empty, that these selves finally started fading away, revealing a wholer, freer self, much less attached to "do's" and "rights".  

My battle today is to stay attached enough to those false selves that I am no longer defined by them. To keep my eye on their grip, to stay mindful of my motives and aware of where my worth is coming from. Living a truer me, a me that just is - valued, loved, whole, beautiful, creative - is a process of constant checking-in and readjusting. Perhaps one day my true self will be a strong oak, deeply rooted and firmly planted. But today, it is a precious, fragile start, with tiny green leaves looking heavenward and a delicate stem still bending from the weight of life. 

In light of this fragility and the time and pain it's taken to unravel the false from the true - the be from the do - I am keen to raise my children in a different way, to make this vocabulary part of their lives and to help them find love and belonging in their being. I read about the false self, and after a brief introspection, my mama heart quickly turns to, "Oh, God! How can I keep my children from being overly attached to false identities?" I think and fret and wonder, "Do I praise their accomplishments too much? Do I attach too much pleasure to doing right (or too much pain to doing wrong)? How do I lead them in becoming themselves, unhindered by false attachments and unecessary obsessions? How do I raise whole children?" 

I think of a million ways throughout the day that I'm probably ruining these precious beings; and fear even more the millions more I'm not even aware of. I analyze conversations we've had, replay recent interactions and reevaluate our current routines. And all the while I keep asking, "How do I raise whole children?" 

The task seems nearly impossible - all the known shortcomings, all the unknown imbalances. I strategize, make lists, reserve a few more parenting books and breathe heavily. I so want to protect them from wasted years, from feeling empty or alone or not enough. I want to empower them to be capable and content, responsible and playful, truthful and free - balanced and whole in every way. I want their journey to be a bit lighter.

And then I see the mist clouding my vision, my own false selves tightening their grips - the voices that demand everything be perfect, that life have a plan and rules to stick by. I see the controlling self trying to formulate and the people-pleasing self looking over one should and then the next. I see fear pointing to a bright red sign "Not Enough".

And I see, again - I know with every breath - that the best way to give my children wholeness, fuller and freer life, is to know wholeness myself. To live wholeness before them. To be full and free.

So I breath and return to being. 

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Kyler

A letter to my son, on his third birthday:

My precious son. It is hard to know where to begin. In three short years, you have filled my life with unfathomable joy and hope and beauty. Your daddy and I were moved to tears when we first met you, and I am still caught off guard - lump in my throat, tear in my eye - at the overwhelming love I have for you. That first day in the hospital, finally welcoming you and holding you in my arms, my heart grew by acres, where you remain today.

Like many expectant parents, your daddy and I doted over every detail of your nursery - painting and creating and planning day and night. We chronicled my belly expanding month by month, until finally we held you. We attended birthing classes and took hospital tours and celebrated with friends and family and marveled that we were going to have a baby. We were going to have a baby.

Kyler, you are a miracle. 

I had grown up knowing in my gut that I was created to care for orphans. I remember watching commercials about orphans in Africa, their hollow eyes and swollen bellies, and my chest swelling with passion, an unshakable sense of “I must do something!". I couldn’t understand how, as an affluent, Christian society, we hadn’t put a much larger dent in the orphan crisis internationally. I couldn’t understand the lives around me that didn’t place orphan-care as a primary aspect of their lives. As soon as I had the language to verbalize it - around the age of six - I began announcing that I would adopt multiple children when I got older. I felt this was my grand calling in life.

I told all of this to your daddy on our first date. Being the amazing man that he is, he took the news in stride and, having a passion to care for orphans himself, soon became equally adamant about a family built on adoption alone. Later that year when we married, we had already had dozens of conversations about our future adopted family and were both cemented in our decision never to birth biological children. 

Kyler, you are a miracle. 

Over the years, these concrete decisions were aided by several medical professionals, who repeatedly informed me that I would have a very difficult time conceiving. When we were ready to begin the adoption process, my doctor wrote a letter to our adoption agency informing them that, medically speaking, I was a prime candidate for adoption. I didn’t need the science to confirm my calling, but having that letter in hand felt like a mission from God himself. I was purposed to adopted orphans.

In the fourth year of our marriage, your daddy and I went through a very painful experience. We lost our jobs, our friendships, our stability, our calling, our foster son and our faith. It was a devastating year. 

As we writhed in the pain from that experience, there were days that I could hardly get out of bed. It felt like the tears I’d cried throughout the night had cemented my body to the sheets, so that there was no physical way to remove myself. I’d lay there, plastered in pain. It all became so overwhelming, that I finally had to tell myself to stop crying. To stop feeling. To stop talking. Just to go through the motions of the day and keep breathing. 

In the midst of all that aching, I kept hearing my soul say, “You are a mama”. I’d yell back at that ghastly claim and the memories it induced and I’d try to run away again. I'd silence and stuff, but after a few months of running, I grew weary and finally listened. 

Almost magically, my heart opened up to the idea of birthing a biological child. It was a thought I had never, ever had until that summer, and one that I’d always believed was nearly impossible for my body. Your daddy was shocked when I first suggested the idea - it was so far from anything we’d ever known. But, then, life was so far from anything we’d ever known, too. 

Kyler, you are a miracle. 

I was pregnant within a matter of weeks. 

We tested and tested and tested again, unable to believe that we would have the privilege of welcoming you into the world. We dreamed about holding you and knowing you and calling you by the name we'd so carefully selected. I visited the doctor diligently and doubted, even until the last day, that my body was actually capable of such a miracle. 

In the early morning hours of March 16, 2011, you taught our hearts to laugh again, to hope again, to love again. You taught us that miracles do happen and nothing is ever a waste. You made me a mama again, and I'm honored to call you son.

Happy Birthday, Kyler! My precious miracle.

I love you,

Mama

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Marbles

Sometimes we just give up. Occasionally it is of the sort where all at once we leave a half-finished project on the work table for months and months, until finally a new project or a cleaner spouse beckons us to do away with it. Other times it's the new workout schedule that we successfully implement for 2.6 days and then realize on day five that life has effectively continued on without any form of exercise, or any missing of its absence for that matter. 

Then there are times when quitting takes the form of a slow drip: consistent, rhythmic, routine. This is the kind of sub-concious quitting that comes about by a series of events, a build up of decisions - all culminating in a total release. A slow surrender. Bit by bit...gone. 

Brene Brown describes this in Daring Greatly as the "betrayal of disengagement". She talks about a jar of marbles, each marble representing connection or engagement or effort. Marbles trickling into the jar with each decision to say, "I love you" or with each day we stick to a routine. Then, the marbles just as easily spill back out with each decision to roll over without a word or to let life busy us out of our good intentions. We put marbles in or take them out, one at at time, our offerings of love or refusals to try again. 

I'd like to think I do a lot of marble-loading. I speak words of affection, I give thoughtful gifts, I serve, I listen. I work hard to help provide for my family, I give, I create. But I know swiping a marble or two is all too easy for me. I withhold a word of love to preserve my own comfort, I resist being the first to call or email a friend, I make endless lists of to do's and miss the bigger picture right in front of me. Sometimes I get so good at not speaking or just doing that I've emptied the marble jar completely. I've systematically lost connection. I've slowly quit engaging or trying. Sometimes, I find that I’ve lost hope or interest all together.

I don't like thinking of myself as a quitter. It doesn't fit my cultural or familial or personal definitions of a good person. I'd err on the side of irrationally "sticking to it" before I'd consciously let myself be seen as giving up. But the kind of quitting I'm good at, the kind of giving up I see all around, isn't conscious. At least, it's not a conscious decision about a total release of something. It's the slow build-up of decisions, the one-by-one swiping of marbles, the lifetime of small choices that move us further and further and further away from commitment and connection, from engagement and effort. Until one day we find that we have quit; we've squeezed our lips shut so many times that they are nearly sealed and relationships are broken; we've stuck to the to do list day after day after day and find ourselves empty and disconnected from the meaning we once saw on the horizon.    

When I find myself faced with the atrophy of heart that comes from this build-up of decisions, life looks too grim. It seems hopeless and I'm tempted to let the last little piece of connection just slip away. I don't feel capable of the effort it would take to be in good physical shape or to have an amazing marriage or to be content and connected spiritually. Those seem like far off dreams, too far for my feeble arms to reach. 

But then I think about the marbles, and all those little decisions that got me to this place - and I wonder if the reverse isn't also true. If choosing to say "I love you" today will eventually heal. If picking the apple over the cookie will slowly add up. If whispering to the sky “Thank you” will, in it’s time, lead to something fuller. If putting forth just a little effort, opening up just a little more, will get me closer to the wholeness of life I long for. And then I'm hopeful - that marble by marble, one step today, perhaps another one tomorrow, dreams and relationships and meaning and life can be built again.

May your jar be full, friend. 

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You Were Meant to Be: A Birthday Letter

A Letter to My Daughter, on Her Second Birthday: 

Baby girl. I cannot even begin to express what a miracle you are, how profoundly you amaze me every day. I look into your eyes and know there is goodness in the world. I watch you giggle and am filled with hope. I see you play and love and know there is meaning in it all, after all. It's hard to imagine a time when you weren't. 

There was such a time, though, and sooner or later, you will learn that daddy and I didn't plan for you in the traditional sense. We were exhausted from your brother's terrible sleeping habits and under the impression that mama's body didn't work as well as other mama's in making babies. We were lost in newborn baby world and busy with work and school. We were emotionally spent from years of doing and eager for the "easy life", or at least a break. When we found out you would be, we were at first shocked and then scared.

But, you were meant to be, baby.  

I was terrified of raising another child, overwhelmed at the messiness of our lives and despairing at the thought of more labor pains and more sleepless nights. I had just returned to my fulll-time office job when we found out I was pregnant again. I was constantly nauseous, extremely fatigued and very frustrated that life continued to be out of my control. That break I'd been hoping for seemed ever allusive and I struggled to find an emotional equilibrium.

But, you were meant to be, baby.

As your brother grew and finally learned how to sleep and as our hearts adjusted to the idea of welcoming another, our surprise and fear soon turned to excitement and anticipation. We were thrilled when the doctor said we'd be having a baby girl and dove into planning your nursery. We painted and decorated and doted on every detail, our hearts expanding with each act. We chose your name with care and dreamed of the woman you would be.

You were so meant to be, baby. 

I cannot express how deeply moved and grateful I am that life is out of my control. You are an amazing gift, Havyn. You are fully loved and fully welcome. You are divine in every sense. You are meant to be - in this family, in this time, in this world. Havyn, you were always meant to be.

I see you nurture your baby dolls - giving them endless kisses and tender cuddles, rearranging their blankies, feeding them and taking them for walks - and I marvel at your innate kindness, your inherent tenderness. I watch you gather all the play food and all your purses, all your baby dolls and their toys, all their blankets and bottles, and huddle piles of stuff on your "boat" - and I am proud of how hard working you are, how determined and resourceful you are. I see you light up when you dance and giggle when your brother does something silly - and I weep at how beautiful you are, how alive you are. 

You are strong and you are capable, but you know how to ask for help. Don't ever stop asking for help, baby girl. It only shows just how strong you are.

You are kind and loving, but determined in your "No". Stay strong in your "No", Havyn. Listen to your heart and guard the life within.

You are creative and smart, but sometimes people will tell you "No". It's okay to go for it anyways, Angel. It's okay to just be yourself. 

You are meant to be, Havyn. And I am so thankful I get to be with you.  

Happy Birthday, baby!

Love,
Mama

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