Healing Out Loud

For My Son

My children don’t need me to save them. They need to see me save myself.

Glennon Doyle, Untamed

Photo by brooklyn on Unsplash

Twenty-five years ago this week, I became a mom. My heart swells with love and gratitude that I was given the gift of bringing his soul into this world. As I waited expectantly for his arrival, I vividly remember sitting on my front porch pondering all that was about to change. Three things came clearly to mind about what was most important to me as a parent.

1. He would hear me say I love you every single day.

2. He could ask me anything and I would provide an honest, age-appropriate answer.

3. He could love anyone he wanted, growing up learning to respect everyone’s right to their own loving heart.

I see now this is a short list of what I missed as a child and yearned for as an adult. I’ve shared with him this inner conversation I had before his birth, and he assures me I’ve done a good job being his mom.

One of the many gifts he brings to the world is his deep sense of compassion. Even as an infant, he would lie quietly on my lap in the moments I desperately needed stillness to catch my breath, as all new mothers do. He would look up at me in a knowing way, before he even found his smile.

Exactly four months after his twenty-first birthday, and only weeks before my fifty-fifth, I started my healing journey working with an amazing therapist. My professional work, once a dream job, had become unbearable. I didn’t want to go to bed at night because I didn’t want to get up and face the next day. In the evenings, I was drinking more wine than I wanted and waking up many mornings in a flood of secret shame, promising myself that the day would be different. His dad had suddenly announced he was selling the house and moving to another state. As I was helping my son sort, purge and store his childhood things, I realized that I probably had some unresolved emotions to sort through myself after my twenty-year marriage ended, four years earlier.

My therapist first wanted to know what result I was seeking. I listed three things.

1. I wanted to be able to function at work.

2. I wanted to be happy.

3. I wanted to drink less.

When I began telling her what brought me to therapy, I started my story before I was even married. As I finished with some details about how awful my work had become, she thanked me and said three things.

1. This isn’t about work. You deserve more than just functioning in your life. You deserve to live your life.

2. The work you are about to do will be hard, but not as hard as all you have survived.

3. You will become a different person when you are done. Some people will like the new you. And some won’t.

Without hesitation, I said, “The only person I care about is my son. What do I do?”

She replied, “Keep him close. Ask him what he needs.”

The work of healing began. And she was right.

It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, and I am a different person. At the time, all that I was learning created amazing opportunities for deep conversations with my son. I didn’t burden him, but I let him see me cry, struggle, reflect, learn, and celebrate success. No more hiding. No more pretending.

I broke into tears when I shared what I learned about perfectionism and shame. What I thought was my tendency for high level performance, was actually about my fear of not belonging or being loved. Fear of losing everything if I wasn’t perfect.

When I told him I had stopped drinking, he exclaimed how proud he was of me, even though he had no idea that a drank more than a socially acceptable glass or two of wine in the evenings. He even went to a support group meeting with me so he could learn and encourage me even more.

I found gentle words and explanations for why I couldn’t be married and why other family relationships were strained. Even though he didn’t see things exactly as I did, he never told me I was wrong – he stayed curious with me to gain deeper understanding and compassion.

After one year of healing, I asked him how he thought I had changed. He turned his head pensively and replied, “You don’t care as much what other people think about you.” That made me smile. My follow up question was what he learned about himself. After another reflective pause he said, “I’ve learned how important it is to be authentic.” And that made me smile even more.

A few months later, he was a captive audience in the car as we made a two-hour drive to Kansas City. We discussed more about the changes we had both experienced. I will never forget what he said to me. “Mom, I always thought you were a happy, positive person. But it’s like you were looking in a foggy mirror and now you wiped away the mist and you can see yourself clearly.”

He had no idea that I had written the poem below, 5:00 AM on My 55th Birthday, eighteen months earlier, yearning to be seen for who I am, not who I was supposed to be. But first, I had to do the hard work of looking in the mirror and discovering my own authentic, messy self.

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5:00 AM on My 55th Birthday ~ 12.21.2021

It's the darkest morning of the longest night. 
A winter solstice to bring new light. 

Reflections of walls crumbling down. 
The protective fortress crashed. 

Amidst the rubble, repressed 
Regret. Pain. Silence.

Unexpected insight. Curiosity. 
The possibility of being seen.

Being seen. 

Until now only by others. 
You wouldn't, couldn't, believe. 

Open your eyes. 
Look up into the mirror. 

You. 
Are. 
There. 

Simply see. 
Simply believe. 

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Happy birthday, sweetie. Thank you for your kind, knowing soul. Thanks for making me a mom and living life with me. I celebrate you every day.

With loving wishes,

Mom