I talked recently to one of the youths who frequents my home about a thrashing, wiggling, wild conversation they’d had with a parental figure in which the parent said, basically, I’m so, so, so, so, so, so proud of you and all the Things you’ve accomplished, and, WOW, what a Success you are, except in this One Major Area where you’ve Failed Completely, and, if you keep this up, you’re doomed and your children are doomed and so on and so forth unto the infinite generations. It was a clamorous pivot, you know? Of the type that gives one emotional whiplash, so now begins the attempt at recovery. The neck brace so as to not exascerbate the injury, the temporary pain relief to get them over the initial agony, the emotional rehab to learn, gently, how to reuse muscles that have been torn. Where once the young human could lithely spin and dance around or hurdle over emotional obstacles, now they must move slowly, tenderly, picking their way through obstructions that used to be barely noticed. How, they asked me later in a desperate bid to understand What the Fuck Just Happened, can my parent say these things? Why? What is it that they expect to accomplish with the I’m So Proud BUT message? And, most importantly, why can’t we be rid of the guilt, the heavy-handed opinions, the lack of reflection on how the parent’s perspective may not really apply? Why can’t my parent be proud of me for…oh, I don’t know…ME? How is it that I don’t measure up?
And, oh, friends. I hate this for our Youngs. I hate that they have to navigate the nonsense. I hate that they believe these messages are in any way a reflection of them, the young ones, rather than a spotlight on we Olds.
Because, of course, as the person with the outside perspective, the one removed from the emotional and spiritual weapons the parent wielded, I know that this Young One is already enough. And working their ass off to be better. And remarkably aware that this parent is just absolutely batty about this One Major Area. Bonkers. Bananas. Nuts. And so deeply emeshed in The One Way Things Have to Be as to be blinded to this child’s brilliant critical thinking skills. As in, never have I ever met a human more interested and engaged in sussing out What the Fuckery. Never have I ever met a human more determined to be deliberate in choosing for their life What Works and discarding What Doesn’t. Never have I ever met a human more deserving of trust as they pursue a meaningful life well lived. Equals? Yes, I’ve met many. Superiors, though? None.
So I told the Young what I believed they needed to know in the moment, which is this: your parent’s message had nothing to do with the real, actual, living, breathing You. Zero percent. Your parent’s message is one that comes from their own trauma, their own blindedness, their own confusion that your life could possibly be filled with so very much that’s Good and Fulfilling when you’re not participating in That One Thing they were told was the necessary foundation–the only possible framework–for anything of worth. Your parent’s message is a (bizarre, poorly worded, hurtful) compliment, commentary clear that you’ve measured up, although the parent doesn’t understand how.
And, while I don’t regret what I said, I wish I’d added this: you’re already enough. You’re deeply worthy of love for exactly who you already are. The Successes are nice, yes. Lovely, in fact. Great job. Whatever. But they are not YOU, and you are not them, and they have no bearing whatsoever on your value as a human. You can pick your own trajectory, friend, whether it includes the One Major Area–That One Thing–or not. You can, and must, choose your own direction based on the compass of your heart. The thing about compasses is this: they can point you in a clear direction, but you still must navigate the wilderness or the sea or the desert or the complicated, complex life to arrive at your murky, squishy, changing destination. There will be course corrections. There will be confusion, even, as the compass of your heart conflicts with the map of your gut or the rudder of your brain. There’s a lot going on inside, friend, not to mention *the impediments life will toss your way, forcing a reworking of the route, or the voices shouting they know the Best Way. But the truth is this: only YOU get to choose what and where and how is right for you. And you’re going to do great because that’s already who you are: beautifully and wonderfully made. Full stop.
*P.S. Please enjoy the universe’s gift that, as I was preparing to type “the impediments life will toss your way”, I was interrupted, for my small hellhound escaped the backyard, rolled in shit, and came bounding back, tossing shrill barks at an innocent neighbor over her shoulder, requiring a bath that soaked me to the skin. Impediments, indeed. Excrement-laden, cacophonous impediments which will temporarily drown us. Still, we rise.
The little poop:
