What Would It Be Like to Trust Myself?

Posted on July 25, 2024 by betinahsieh

A few days ago, I wrote about being more patient with myself when I make mistakes. I am still working on this, but also with a slight reframe.

Yesterday, I prioritized self-care and community-care. I connected with people; I ate well; I walked; I listened to my body later in the day when I was working past my limits. I had a few wonderful conversations with wonderful humans. When I get the chance to be in community with others that I have a deep resonance with, it feels replenishing. I did small and big things that bring me joy. When I do this, my body (eventually) feels a sense of deep peace. It’s something I expected to find here, in my new home, easily, but something that has been elusive since the move.

Initially, likely because I am out of practice, the self-prioritization didn’t sit well with me. I had decided early in the day to pivot a proposal I was working on, but because I had scheduled multiple care activities during the day (and was prioritizing things like preparing and eating good food), I didn’t get to my proposal until later in the afternoon. I caught myself at multiple times moving towards anxiety that it wasn’t going to get done or that it would push into other times that I had carefully cultivated for other things. I noticed how much stress sits in my body when I have an unwavering commitment to time looking and going a certain way.

I chose to lean into trusting myself and reminded myself that time expands and contracts if and as we allow it to, particularly when it is time in relation to writing and thinking. I often worry, as someone who spends a lot of time thinking and writing, that the “right” thought or words will be there only in a moment and then gone the next. I worry that if things don’t get done in this moment, they will be forgotten and never get done. I worry a lot about the disappointment that might bring to others.

I am remembering in my body, now that I have given myself permission to breathe, however, that I can trust myself, that I can choose to value my time and my energy and to bound it in ways that allow me to continue in community. Sustainability, at this stage, is a choice that is within my reach. Choosing it is as powerful as anything I can produce in any given moment.

I am reminded that what is meant to be mine will find its way to me and what is not for me may be a blessing to someone else.

I am reassured that mistakes are human and that my humanity and humility are held in community.

All the power of my foremothers, my other mothers, my siblings, and all they have contributed and continue to contribute to me have brought me to this point. Their power, our power, rests within me. It is mine to claim.

I know these things. They sit with me when I sit with myself.

But sometimes, it can only be felt in the stillness.

Sometimes, it can only be felt when I trust myself to embody it.

These are the moments that I hope to hold on to.

Moving, Movement, (E)Motion

Posted on June 2, 2024 by betinahsieh

It is a time, my friends.

This week, in preparation for selling our home, there has been a lot of disarray, a lot of movement, a lot of sorting.

Keep, give-away, recycle, throw away.

It is simple but never easy.

At least for me.

My two children sorted through things with much greater ease than I did. They have been blessed with much, so their attachment is much less to things than to people. It is easy for them to recognize when they’ve moved past things.

I grew up without a lot so everything seemed so valuable.

Then when I lost my mom at 16, time seemed to stopp. For a long time, I couldn’t throw away anything from the before times. In my series of moves after my mother’s death, in high school, throughout college, in my early career and first house, back down to Southern California and into this house, there have been boxes I have refused to look through. The boxes that follow me, like ghosts from eras past, from place to place, because I refuse to see them. Memories of the before times and of the year my mother died and the end of high school. I have perhaps held on to all of these things because it was too painful to remember a before time, a rupture. It was too hard to revisit that time and losing the most important person in the world to me.

But, somehow, now is the time.

Today, after beginning my day sorting through some of my college memories and a few childhood memory boxes, I left to give a keynote to a sizable cohort of teacher residents earning their Masters of Arts in Education. In my keynote, I said these words:

“When we spend time talking at one another instead of talking to one another, when we are bombarded with information at such a rate that it’s overwhelming and we don’t know what to believe, we begin to lose connection with our own humanity and the humanity of others. In these moments, we must hold onto our why and hold on to our humanity.

I’d like for all of us, whether you are a graduate, faculty member or guest to take a moment right now and think about your why and I’d urge you to reach out to the people who are your why and to tell them how much they mean to you. When challenging times arise in teaching, these are the people that ground us.

We have to hold onto our why, to know and embrace all of our humanity as educators because our humanity will be tested within and beyond educational institutions. When it is tested, if we do not hold on to our humanity and our integrity, our reason for being here, if we lose ourselves, it is a huge loss to those who love us, to our students & their families, and to the difference we are committed to making. We must stay committed to listening and learning from our communities, from those most impacted by violence and inequities, and to using our privilege and position to amplify their voices.”

When I asked the audience to think about their why, I thought about mine — that my why has always been to honor the legacy and sacrifice of my mother, and to be a good future ancestor for my children. My why is about making a difference in the lives of others, seeing them, because when we are seen, we can fully be, in ways not otherwise possible.

Somehow, in holding onto my why, the what suddenly became less important — that is to say that, suddenly I was able to revisit a time that I couldn’t be in before and let go of the things I carried from home to home, from year to year. I left the ceremony and went to pay my respects to the elders in my family (my aunt, uncle, mom and grandmother) then came home and sorted through the box (it happened, perhaps not coincidentally, to be the box that was next to be sorted through) that had my letters from high school and all of the cards we received when my mother passed away.

I read through them and kept a few but let the majority of them go.

It was time.

It is time.

I am finally in a place where letting go of that time, letting go of those things, does not mean letting go of my mother.

I can never let go of her.

She has sourced so much of the good in me.

It is a time. It is a time to hold those we love dear to us in our hearts, to sort through the clutter to get to the essence. To heal so that the next generation doesn’t carry forth our burdens.

It is a time.

A Letter to my Son — Graduation

Posted on May 22, 2024 by betinahsieh

Dear Son,

Last night was your high school graduation.

We made it.

While I am always aware that the obstacles you and we have overcome may pale in comparison with some, it has not been an easy 6 years of secondary school. Punctuated with a semi-colon by the pandemic, with the pick-up not ever quite right, followed subsequently by an incredibly academically challenging year and this year, which was both academically and personally challenging in different ways (including our family’s gradual transition), it has been a lot.

It has particularly been a lot for a mother-son duo that tends towards harsh self-critique, perfectionism, and comparing ourselves to those around us (usually finding ourselves on the short end of the stick compared to someone in some context).

I want you to know how much I love you and how much I value you. I know that you know, but I can never say it enough.

When I couldn’t sleep last night, my mind kept returning to this thought: they say that when you have a child, it is (they are) your heart (or at least a big part of it) walking separately from your body (okay, this is probably a less poetic version than what they actually say, but it’s the best I can do on very little sleep). I felt that way yesterday when I watched you cross the stage.

There you were, suddenly grown. It seemed like yesterday that you entered this world. I blinked and you are a young man, a high school graduate, someone who has so much character, brilliance, and agency, someone I admire and who sometimes frustrates me, but much more often reminds me to be compassionate to myself and makes me smile or laugh.

We’re entering this new phase of life. I know you’ll stay close, but you’ll also have much more independence as you move forward in your adult life.

I don’t know how to mother you through this phase of life. Even though I’ve been through this part with your older sisters, because I didn’t raise them as babies, it somehow seems different. I mean, of course, it’s different. You each are different people with different life experiences and different paths forward. I suppose that even in this difference (or maybe because of it), I felt and feel unsure at this point. There have been a lot of moments of uncertainty in my mothering since your sisters became adults, times when I’ve wondered how to be a better mother and worried that I haven’t been enough.

So, I worry now.

We are the same in that we always want to do our best, in everything we do, but especially when things are important to us, and being a mom is the most important thing to me.

You said to your father and me the other day that you’re worried too, that life will not get better, that after 6 hard years of secondary school, college will not bring the friends and experiences you hope for. We tried to reassure you, sharing from our own experiences and you said that you trusted us, knew that we were probably right, and yet it was hard to truly believe because you haven’t lived these things yet.

Same. I know in my heart that you are going to be great. You were great the day you were born. I trust you. And, in spite of everything, I trust myself, at least insofar as your mother, because I know you and I see you. While I worry about the world continuing not to see you, I hold hope that being seen and held by even a few is not insignificant.

While the path forward is not clear, it is one we will navigate both separately and together. I am gingerly embracing this. And I am hoping for many more family car rides and foodie adventures as you journey forward.

I love you.

Mom

Broken Teeth, Broken Hearts & Healing: MotherScholaring & Holding Joy

Posted on April 20, 2024 by betinahsieh

Yesterday was a long day to end a week of unlearning.

When we commit to honoring our humanity and embracing joy and healing, I suppose it’s to be expected that our humanity will show up in full-force. I mean, honestly, our humanity is always showing up, but I guess I’m more attuned to it now that I’m not shushing it or judging it and trying to instead, acknowledge and nurture myself.

So this week, plenty of mistakes were made in all the areas that tend to activate my self-judgment the most: finances, mothering, and time. I also did things that were hard but necessary, offering public comment at a commission on teacher credentialing meeting, admitting to myself that not everything was going to get done, and holding my little girl’s hand while she went through an emergency dental procedure.

This last event leads me to yesterday afternoon. I had just finished my last call for work and was looking at a paper revision while waiting for my nail salon date with my dear friend, Anna. My phone rang and the name of my daughter’s school office came up. My daughter has had many a share of accidents in her young life. We generally get 1-2 calls a month about her hitting her head on something and have gotten used to concussion protocol. So when I saw the office number, I was concerned but not alarmed.

When I answered the call, I realized that this accident was more serious. She had tripped on the blacktop and hit her front teeth. There was a lot of bleeding and crying. I rushed out the door and ran down to the school (which is fortunately a 10-minute walk; 7-minute jog) from the house and found my little one in pain and in need of serious dental intervention.

After dealing with the frustration of my phone refusing to connect to the internet to find her dentist’s number which I somehow didn’t have programmed into my phone (or maybe I do, but I didn’t look there in the moment), my husband arrived, found the number, called the office and we were on our way.

My youngest daughter is one of my greatest sources of joy. She brings light, energy, and joy into every space she occupies. She is bold, hilarious, and amazingly self-expressed. She is also kind, caring, and incredibly loving towards those around her. My little one is the one who has always called for me to be home more, to make time for her, to take care of myself. She is goals for me in so many ways and she holds me to high standards as a mother.

Because of all these things, as I was walk-running to her, the inevitable heartache and self-questioning began. Yes, I was there for her in this moment, but what if this accident had happened next week or last week (when I’m traveling)? What if her accident had been more serious? (This is a huge fear of mine because I have extreme trauma from accidents.) What if she didn’t really know how much I loved her?

These are hard questions that I struggle with a lot. Because of my commitment to my professional self, I have missed out on major events for my kiddos, both good and bad, and it doesn’t ever get easier. Even when I’m ACTUALLY there (like yesterday), I still have guilt triggered about the moments when I’m not there. My children have an incredibly competent and loving father in my husband, but I am still often left with not feeling like I’m the best mom they could have.

Fortunately, the immediate fix for my little girl was quick (although not covered by insurance) with follow up in a few weeks to give her teeth time to heal from the trauma (hopefully) and re-root in their place. Depending on how they’re doing in a few weeks, she’ll have additional procedures, and they’ll reconstruct cosmetically a part of her chipped tooth, but eventually everything will be fine. After sleep, she’s feeling better although still adjusting to a tooth splint and some very sore gums.

I’ve realized, however, that the tensions around my MotherScholar life aren’t going to go away (at least not for a while without more explicit unlearning).

Still, I am lucky to take my cues from my little one who slept it off, cuddled with me this morning, and is happily using baby medicine syringes to feed herself mango smoothie this morning. We’re going to go to the library later to check out graphic novels, after my make-up nail salon date this morning. I’m grateful to take my cues from my son who is spending his morning playing video games before his last concert with his high school orchestra. I’m even (more begrudgingly) taking cues from my dog who is always resting, eating, and self-soothing.

This is, I suppose, my full humanity. I continue to work to embrace it. It is not easy, but it is joyful and authentic, and if anything, I know how to do hard things.

Mothering Moments

Posted on February 15, 2024 by betinahsieh

February is an emotional month.

This February, particularly, it has been a metaphorical roller coaster, because of an actual roller coaster (model that my son and his physics group had to design for his physics class) and because, well my son turns 18 today.

I birthed an adult.

This morning, I shed some tears when I thought about this morning 18 years ago, waking up with light contractions. I would go to a local Indian restaurant with my sister in law for lunch, and she would urge me to eat as much as I could since this was likely to be my last meal before the baby came. We were stuck in traffic on the way to the hospital where they were not sure they should admit me because I wasn’t “that far along,” but did because I lived 30 minutes away, “just in case.” Less than 2-hours later, when they came to check on me, my son was imminently on his way. They rushed to call my OB/GYN who had been finishing up a leisurely dinner, sure that I wouldn’t deliver any time soon. He arrived just as I was pushing, in time to cut the umbilical cord and hand me a little boy that was half of me genetically, but held my whole heart.

I can’t fully describe how much I cherish my son. His early years were some of the very hardest of my life, when I was struggling with severe health issues that nearly killed me while also completing a doctorate and going on the job market. He was with me during the most exhausting parts of the tenure process, and sacrificed a lot throughout his K-12 schooling, switching elementary schools 4 times (because of moves and fit) and still never feeling like he quite belonged, even when he found stability in his 7-12 grade secondary school. While he considers himself pretty lucky to have had the life and family he has, things haven’t always been easy. There have been moments where he’s felt lost, including many where he’s felt alone and questioned his decisions, wondering if he’ll ever find his people outside his family.

This hurts my heart because he still holds so much of it.

Today, he turns 18.

We are waiting on college admissions decisions and anticipating the many transitions adulthood will bring.

He is irritated about the many, intense projects in his physics class, one which culminates today, only to shift focus to another due in 4 weeks.

I am irritated because sometimes I can feel his irritation, but I can’t force him to talk about it, and so I can’t help him through it.

We are exhausted from late nights and uncertainty, which neither of us likes, from things we can’t control and things we perhaps should have done better.

We are human.

In the journey of the last 18 years, perhaps no one has helped me to grow in my own humanity, humility and imperfections as much as my son. Few people have shown me as much unconditional love, grace and understanding as he has. He reminds me to care for myself and that I’m doing a good job as much as I remind him of the same.

I love my son with my whole heart.

What a gift to be his mother.

What a gift to journey together.

What a gift to receive his love and grace.

I hope the next 18 years bring all the joy and belonging that he so richly deserves, beyond that which he has in our family, as he moves out into a wider world, and that we continue to journey through those years together.

Legacies of love

Posted on February 3, 2024 by betinahsieh

29 years ago, my mother died unexpectedly in a car accident.

A year ago, I was interviewing for a job that would be a significant turning point in my academic career and bring enormous change to my personal life.

Although the moments where I can recollect my mother’s physical touch and even her voice become scarcer and scarcer over time, my proximity to her and her guidance to me is as strong now as it has ever been.

There have been so many benchmarks that I wish my mother could have been physically present for:

My high school, undergraduate, and doctoral graduation ceremonies
My marriage
The birth of each of my children
The start of each of my professional careers (middle school & university teaching) and positions along with the moves that accompanied several of them

Yet, as I reflect, I know that my mother has always been with me in these moments, that I have been even more aware of her presence through her absence, that she has been guiding me through the choices I’ve made (including the many mistakes along the way). Through her loss, I feel the depth of her love; I’ve come to understand the strength in her sacrifices; and I’ve arrived at a place where I feel that my healing is a healing that spans generations and brings the best of her into the lives of my children, even though they will never meet in person.

Somehow, although to my knowledge, my mother never set foot in Seattle, I feel closer to her when I am on Coast Salish lands. Perhaps it is because of the deep relationships that local indigenous tribal communities have with both the lands and their ancestors. Or perhaps it is because I somehow feel she guided me to this part of my journey, reconciling with a place that caused a rift between us before she passed. Perhaps it is because I am healing and choosing what to bring through the present transition to this new place.

This week, through work with my therapist, I realized that I’ve been holding on to guilt, particularly in relation to my mom — survivor guilt, mainly, but, in many ways also, guilt for many privileges that feel undeserved and guilt for never being able to give back to her when she gave so much for me to be where I am today.

It is a process in letting that guilt go, in embracing that what she would have wanted was for me to live my best life, and in fact, that this was, in her heart, much of what drove her. I understand this, as I feel these same emotions towards my own children.

For perhaps all of these reasons, unlike many years in the past, today, I feel a certain peace, or, at the least, a movement towards peace. It is a peace punctuated with sadness and loss, but overwhelmingly filled with love and gratitude.

That is my mother’s legacy, not one of loss, but one of deep love that I’ve tried in all ways to pay forward to those in my life.

I will never not acutely miss my mother or wish she were here with me physically. But today, I feel her near me, more than ever, reminding me that I am stronger than I think, than the world might think I am, that I carry wisdom of generations, and that I will weather the seasons and transitions ahead.

She is in my heart, and the legacies of love she (and her mother) have passed down to me are as alive today as they have ever been.

My Mama Heart

Posted on October 6, 2023 by betinahsieh

Where We’re At…

My 17 year old son is in his senior year of high school.

He holds one of the biggest pieces of my heart.

It has been a lot for both of us.

Last Saturday, we went to a family lunch to celebrate my birthday where we think we both ate bad oysters. His symptoms were worse than mine and while I was feeling better by Tuesday, he woke up on Wednesday morning with new symptoms, a fever and aches which we now think are part of a stomach flu virus, which took another turn for the worse in the wee hours of this morning. Food poisoning –> Stomach flu in one week, for a foodie and a senior (or anyone for that matter), is a lot.

He ended up missing three days of school, including his community college class and an after school project he was supposed to support. Tomorrow, he was supposed to retake the SAT, but we canceled it because his health (and the health of others in the room) are more important than the 50-80 points we estimated he might improve his score. This is the last SAT session that he can make before he needs to submit his college applications (he will be testing for his 3rd degree Tae Kwon Do blackbelt during the November test date).

All of this has been a thing, but mostly it hasn’t, except that I wish he felt better.

How We’ve Been

Both of us have been stressed lately.

At the beginning of this week when I was feeling extremely ill and not able to sit up for long periods of time, the 11 projects I’m working on (several of which have looming deadlines) felt completely overwhelming. In addition to these projects, conferences that I’m helping to facilitate are coming up in less than two weeks and I felt completely unprepared. The multiple transitions in our lives have been weighing on my heart.

My son was upset about his science class where, for the first time ever in his secondary school career (in a STEM subject), he felt that his grade didn’t reflect his knowledge at all. He was stressed about the SAT. He recently failed his first attempt at his drive test. He’s been struggling with injuries that aren’t allowing him to do the final demonstration/ testing that he wants to.

It has been a lot for both of us.

What We’ve Learned

Somewhere in this week, we let go. We (independently) came to the realization that we couldn’t do more than our bodies would allow us to. We remembered that our worth (to those who truly care) is more than a set of numbers, is more than our productivity, is more than getting everything right. We recognized that we both are privileged enough to be in places where the consequences of missing a few days will not be dire (when we have family members who don’t share this same privilege). We came to understand that we had to trust the process, the universe, God, ourselves, that we would get to exactly where we needed to go even if it didn’t look the way we thought it should.

[We also realized that a school that could not see past 50-80 points of difference on a standardized test (which is truly not a measure of skills needed to succeed in college) into who he is isn’t a school he should be at anyways.]

The stress can blind us from seeing one another, from seeing ourselves, and from listening to our embodied wisdom. Our bodies could not go on. They forced us to listen. It’s been a hard lesson to learn in some ways, but so important.

Seeing Ourselves and One Another

One of my 11 projects involves interviews with teachers. I interviewed three this week and at each of these interviews, my mama heart felt a deep tenderness (this has been happening A LOT in these interviews). What has struck me about these educators is that they seek to see their students, to create a place of belonging for them. They want students to feel like they have someone who cares for them on campus.

Next month, my 17 year old and I will present together on a panel with other friends (of mine, at least) about his high school experience, which has largely not been this. Hearing these teachers reminds me so much of what my mama heart yearns for, that this quietly extraordinary young person that I’ve known for 18 years (before he was even born) is seen, is affirmed in his unique form of amazingness, that he is loved and held by more than his family, for the entirety of who he is.

This week, as hard as it has been, reminds me that we’re going to be okay, even if this journey for him hasn’t been all that I wish it was and even if it still isn’t exactly what I imagined.

Sometimes, we have to let go of these visions to see one another; sometimes we have to let go of what is hard to embrace what is in front of us.

In all of it, we have to trust.

My tender mama heart is learning and leaning into this, even as one of its biggest parts is aching.

Feeling Transitions

Posted on August 10, 2023 by betinahsieh

Today was my son’s last first day of his K-12 (primary/ secondary) schooling career.

Throughout this “rising senior” summer, I’ve had moments of fleeting awareness that this day was coming, that this benchmark would arrive, sooner than I was ready for it, and today, it did.

I did not need many Kleenex, as I predicted I might. Although a few (just a few!) tears were shed, mostly I did okay sitting in the passenger seat as he drove himself to school. I didn’t break down into heaping sobs after he left, like I did the first time I dropped him off to daycare as an infant. I know he’s going to be great and that we will navigate his senior year together which brings a lot of calm in my heart, even as change is hard.

Today, though, marked the first time I felt in my body the transitions we are going through this year. My son is off to his senior year. I am no longer department chair. I am transitioning roles and institutions, preparing for a move, cycling off important service roles, proposing new projects. There is a lot of motion.

People have been asking me for months how I’m feeling about all of these transitions. I have simply replied, “I don’t know. They don’t feel real to me yet….” until today, when they all feel real and immense and a little overwhelming.

This is a place I know well. Change has been a constant in my life for a long time, one I used to spend much energy running from. I am practicing, instead, what it means to be with all the things, to breathe deeply, to hold boundaries, to claim rest, to cultivate joy, in times of upheaval, in times of change, in times of transition.

I see my imperfections reflected in broken boundaries, in insecurities, in a tendency to continue doing too much for too many, but I am learning to give myself grace, to return to myself and my breath, and to see my imperfections as growing edges, staying present to the love and joy that is around me if I just pause to let it in.

I am also drawing from deep wells of community and dipping my toes into a growing pool of self-affirmation that I am beginning to fill. In holding space for myself to choose work and a walk that is generative, in learning to trust the choices I make that are aligned with the energy and commitments I have, I am making progress, slowly, but surely towards the better world that I believe in.

Space

Posted on May 7, 2023 by betinahsieh

May is a beautiful month for me.

May is also a hard month for me.

This year, as it has been for the last eight years, my daughter’s birthday and Mothers Day are within the same week, with the end of the academic year the following week. I am tired. I often wonder if there will be another Mothers Day that does not feel exhausting, as my heart and mind are divided between wanting to celebrate my daughter and the extraordinary gift of her life, deeply missing my mother, particularly as I get closer and closer to the age she was when she died, and the bustle of the end of an academic year.

May is a time of internal and external conflict. Outsourcing birthday parties, while easier, is pricey, and seems to add on to my perpetual discourse of inadequate mothering, even in this busy professional time, full of events and celebrations, for students, staff, and faculty in my college. This year, as department chair, it is particularly busy, as there is more to support and coordinate with less of the heart work and interaction with students that brings so much light to my academic work. This year, I’m also in the midst of final preparations for a grant-funded conference that is the work of my heart, and while I am confident everything will work out, it is a stressful time in terms of coordination according to the timeline that works best for my head and heart. And our college graduation coincides with two awards ceremonies for my son (school-sponsored and countywide) which I will have to miss as a member of the platform party.

In a few hours, my daughter will celebrate her birthday with my husband’s family, our family, and my sister. It will be a beautiful time, and a hard one. It makes me remember how different our lives are. It makes me remember whole families and how mine still perpetually feels broken, even as I try to repair it in this generation. I am so very tired. And I am holding a lot of sadness. I am also holding so much joy in her having this time with her aunties and uncles and cousins and abuelos, swimming and playing, in her full joy.

In these last several years, I have been working on making space where there is none, and holding space for all of the complexities of life, particularly as someone who loves deeply and whole-heartedly. I have been working on giving myself the grace I so freely give to others. I have been working on being with what is, while working towards what is better.

It is beautiful work, and it is hard.

I hope that if you’re reading this, you will also hold space for me today, for others who are balancing grief, joy, and the myriad other emotions that may come during this time of year. I also hope you’re holding space for yourself. I hope that you will feel the warm embrace of love surrounding you, that you will have moments where you’re able to laugh freely and cry loudly, as you want and need to. I hope you will hold on to better when the moment feels not good enough, and that you will find, make, and take space for yourself in the midst of all you are doing and all that you are for others.

I am, you are, we are beautiful, in this midst of these hard times.

We are very much imperfect, but we are trying

Posted on February 20, 2023 by betinahsieh

Tonight, we celebrated my son’s 17th birthday which was earlier this week.

My son is an extraordinary person.

He was born an old soul and has always been ahead of his time in both wisdom and depth.

He and I share an inability to do less than our best and a sense that when we give less than 100% to anything, we are letting others, and more importantly, ourselves down.

Even though others encourage us to give less, it leaves us feeling like everything is getting short-shrift, like we are letting everyone down, and like we really need to do better in our lives.

It is quite something when your children reflect the hardest parts of yourself back to you.

Tonight, my son started his birthday dinner saying that he needed to do better at surviving. He was near tears. He has been like this a lot lately.

I have been worried, but much more than that, I have been sad, that someone who is such an incredible human being would feel such a depth of despair.

But also, I understand.

So I asked, “Is there anything we can take off your plate? Is there anything you feel like you’d want to give up?”

He named a few things. One is not for now, and can be pushed back a few months until he feels like he can give more of himself. One is perhaps not for ever, something that he tried because he loved, but which morphed into something that felt more like an obligation than joy.

I see his potential in all the things, so in some ways, I could see why he didn’t even want to say aloud these things. He was worried he would disappoint those who had invested in him, those in his community, us. He was choosing to continually disappoint himself (not having the time, energy, or strength to give his all) to avoid disappointing everyone else.

He is not a kid who gives things up easily, and he is someone who has always been cautious with his time. But school is a lot, and between school itself and multiple extracurriculars, it is too much.

Yet, he looks around and sees others doing more, and he worries it is not enough.

I understand.

Tonight, as we were waiting for our first course to arrive, I looked at him and said honestly, “You know, I think that’s great that you want to set some boundaries on your time and that you want to give yourself some space to really devote your best to what you’re doing. I get it. I can’t give less than 100% to things either without disappointing myself. I wish I knew at your age how to let some things go.”

His body has been rebelling lately. He says there are days he feels more like he is 70 than 17. I told him that maybe his body is telling him he is doing too much as well, that our bodies hold wisdom our minds don’t allow us to consider.

He understood.

He decided to talk to those in leadership in the two areas he is going to delay or take himself out of. His initial concerns about what they might think of him somewhat assuaged by the assurances that it is likely they will understand, and by the reminder that those who truly know him and those who truly love him are there for him because of who he is, not anything he does.

We had a really good birthday dinner. He was able to enjoy the food and come back to himself. He was relieved. I am grateful.

But most of all, I am reminded at how much I have to learn from my children and from mothering.

I have felt so much of what he is feeling recently, so much of not wanting to let anyone down but feeling so limited in time, energy & spirit, that I am, in effect, letting everyone down. I am not capable of giving less than my best. I can’t fight against that.

So I have to do less.

Take things off my plate so that I can enjoy the feast that is in front of me.

Trust that people will understand when balls and plates and activities drop.

Trust that those who love me do so because of who I am and not what I do.

We are on parallel journeys, my son and I, to accept our own humanity, the limitations of our time and energy, and to make wiser choices that allow us to remember who we are, instead of trying to be all things to all people.

We understand.

We are very much imperfect, but we are trying.

We are in it together.

And we are well loved.

The Life and Times of an Evolving Academic

Join me on my journey through academia as a teacher educator committed to issues of equity

Tag Archives: Mothering