 Boun-da-ries… bound-aries… boundaries…
I’m sounding it out as the word is highly unfamiliar to me. My Type A personality, coupled with an innate desire to people please creates the perfect recipe for self-inducing stress that would rival Gordon Ramsay’s most fiery concoctions: The Fixer’s Flambe, Your Savior’s Savory Sauce. While my own life is often a hot mess, giving advice is my jam. My brain is chalked full of mental health strategies, the perfect book or podcast recommendation which will solve your problems, and insightful anecdotes which both entertain and teach. I also want all the people in my life to feel cared for. When we are together, I will ensure you feel seen, heard, and that you feel like the most interesting human in the room. Your happiness is my greatest concern; thus, I will manipulate the environment to ensure both your safety and your enjoyment. Am I an empath? Maybe. A control freak? For sure. Boundaries between your happiness and mine? None. My husband and I recently planned a once-in-a-lifetime vacation for our kids and my parents. Weeks before departure, in a vicious anxiety spiral, I found myself lamenting first world problems with my therapist. Having put so much pressure on the success of this vacation, I was beginning to lose sleep. What if we don’t get along? Maybe they won’t love the itinerary. I want them to remember this trip forever. After listening with the chilled-out patience of a monk who is high on weed, my therapist asked three poignant questions: Is anyone asking you to be responsible for their happiness, or are you assuming the responsibility yourself? Are you truly responsible for that? Do you want to be responsible for that? I realized that my husband and I had done our best to plan an amazing vacation for our family. We were organized, had considered everyone’s interests, and used our knowledge of the country to offer a diverse variety of experiences. If someone in our family did not enjoy the trip, that was on them. I needed to trust their ability to find their own joy. Boundaries. These three questions have become game-changers for me. They are applicable in almost every situation. If your teenager is failing school… If your spouse is unhappy with their job… If your friend is in an unhealthy relationship… Is anyone in your family asking you to be responsible for their happiness, or are you assuming the responsibility yourself? Are you truly responsible for that? Do you want to be responsible for that? Micromanaging and fixing are not a show of support. By stepping over my boundaries and attempting to take control, I am sending the message that I do not believe the person can care for themselves or solve the problem on their own. My act of “love” is actually a thinly disguised insult to their intelligence. By upholding boundaries, I am protecting my relationships. While offering a sympathetic ear and some gentle guidance (only if asked for), I am no longer a manipulator, but a genuine source of emotional support. The space between us prevents me from becoming energetically depleted, as my happiness is no longer contingent on the vibrations of those around me. With my own mental health in tact, I can serve others more profoundly. Instead of solving, fixing, pleasing, and micromanaging, I am learning to ask: Do you need anything from me in this moment? Would you like me to listen or help you find a solution? These questions feel like freedom for both of us. While it is often easier said than done, I am finding that upholding boundaries has not only improved my sleep, but has cleared mental space for me to contemplate other first world problems, like... Why am I the only one in this house who knows what’s for dinner?
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 Mothers spend many years as the center of their children’s universe. Just as the planets orbit the sun, our kids literally and figuratively run circles around us. During this season, our children look to us for love, entertainment, guidance, security, and sustenance. It is glorious and exhausting.
As seasons change, so does motherhood. Inevitably, there comes a time when our children’s orbit stretches a little bit farther and a little bit farther until it becomes an oblong shape. There are moments when they seem incredibly far away, and we wait for them to circle back, closer to our warmth. It’s a natural process. As a professional who has dedicated the last decade to studying human development, I can quote countless articles and books which explain that teenagers must put distance between themselves and their parents. It is how they learn to navigate the world independently. It is how they make meaning of experiences. It is how they gain confidence and create their own boundaries. As a mother, I can only tell you that it sucks and it’s lonely at times. One of my core beliefs is that we are always presented with a choice in how we react to life. My children’s orbits are extending beyond my outstretched arms and lately, I find myself with a lot of free time. I can either question my purpose and become a dying star, or I can discover new ways to ignite the light within me. This year has been a journey, as I explore new hobbies, new friendships, and ways to meaningfully fill my time. One of the revelations I’ve had during this season is that I don’t know how to enjoy my own company. After years of being busy and distracted, rarely having a moment to myself, I now have countless hours to spend with me, myself, and I. Surprisingly, I don’t really know her. So, I decided to set a goal of dating myself this summer. At this point, you may be asking “WTF does that even mean?” Great question, you curious little thing! The idea stems from a book about creativity that I read years ago--The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron. The premise is along the lines of the famed saying, “Writers write” and I was looking for ideas to get my pen moving again after months of having nothing to say. Cameron explained that creativity is near impossible to access when we are locked into dreary routine, white knuckling life day after day. Creativity is born out of the unexpected, the joyful, the curious, and the playful. Thus, she advocates for “Artist Dates” as a way to reignite the simmering embers. “Artist Dates are assigned play… They fire up imagination. They spark whimsy. They encourage play… When choosing an Artist Date, it is good to ask yourself, ‘what sounds fun?’—and then allow yourself to try it.”[kc1] I decided use the concept of the Artist’s Date as inspiration for learning to enjoy my own company. Because I thrive within structure (and am a super big nerd), I decided to set some ground rules for my solo dates.
If the concept of dating yourself appeals to you, here are some affordable ideas I have penciled onto my own calendar:
When our children no longer need us as fiercely as in their earliest years, it becomes time to need ourselves. What a beautiful time it can be—walking towards our own independence and rediscovering the world at the same time our children are exploring their own lives. The parallelism of this season is close to perfection. And, in moments when our orbits pull us close, the boys and I will have so much to talk about! I can’t wait. [kc1]https://juliacameronlive.com/basic-tools/artists-dates/  Last night I indulged in my favourite meal: ravioli with pesto sauce.
While my forties have blessed me with the wisdom to love my body exactly as it is and have gratitude for how it serves me, this decade has also ushered in a plethora of dietary restrictions. With each passing month, a new item pops up on my body’s list of forbidden food. Five minutes of culinary delight now equates to hours of bloating, gas, and stabbing pain. As I write this blog, I am on Day 5 of a caffeine cleanse—a fresh hell I had resisted for years. I am now vegetarian, sugar free, dairy restricted, alcohol restricted, and caffeine free. It's as much fun as it sounds. Believe me when I say there is no moral high ground upon which I stand. I am not a grass eating, nature loving, hipster-health nut. My strict diet has grown out of concern for the longevity of my marriage as squeaking silent farts all day every day is not conducive to a spicy love life. However, I am not a saint and do love a cheat day every now and then. Hence, the ravioli…which was followed by a delicious slice of white cake with white icing. Can I get an amen? My punishment for enjoying such a rich and delectable meal? The last time I saw my belly that bloated, I was six months pregnant. As I moaned and cradled my food-baby, Miguel giggled and asked how I felt. “I feel awful, but that’s okay. It was a downfall of my own making.” “Mi amor. Even though you chose this fate, you are definitely not okay,” he replied. He then went on to point out that every time I feel compelled to acknowledge something in life, which is less than bright and shiny, I couch my feelings with forced positivity. These phrases pepper my vernacular on the daily: But that’s okay. I’m sure it’s meant to happen this way. It could be worse. I’m looking for the lesson here. At least it wasn’t… “It would be more authentic if you simply said that you feel awful. Full stop,” Miguel challenged. “Sometimes things just suck.” The conversation got me thinking about other areas of inauthenticity in my life. Could I be bold enough to honour my likes and dislikes? To share when I am having a bad day? To let go of friendships which no longer serve me? To stop saying yes when I really want to say no? In order to stand in my own authenticity, I need to let go of The Pleaser and The Good Girl and trust that people will love me even when I disagree, politely decline, or express discontent. Maybe they will embrace this new honest and transparent version of Kel. Let’s try it on for size… I haven’t had coffee for five days. I am currently cranky, exhausted, and have very little bandwidth for bullshit. Yes, my stomach feels better. I am less bloated and my aura is no longer a sickly, green, toxic IBS stench. But I am totally bummed at the thought of permanently giving up my daily cup of java, as I love it so. While I am in this state of mourning, I refuse to apologize for my bad attitude. This is me, this week. Take it or leave it.  My oldest child is graduating high school in a few weeks.
As we entered this momentous school year, I was surprised by the deep sense of mourning I felt. His graduation felt like a loss, a milestone marking the end of my active, daily role in his life. I found myself counting off our “lasts” like one pulls petals off a daisy. Last Christmas break, last semester, last soccer season… Though I never overtly shared my emotions with him, my energy shone loud and clear. My words said, “This is amazing” but my vibe said, “I’m not happy for you.” It took me weeks to realize how important it was to re-frame this time in our lives. My mindset was dulling the brilliance of this occasion. And mindset is always a choice, something we have total control over. I was choosing to be blue in a season which should be exhilarating for my son. Sadness or celebration. Tears or champagne. I had all the power to decide. Shopping for his tuxedo offered the opportunity to marvel at the beautiful man he is becoming, inside and out. His broad shoulders stretched the midnight black jacket as pride stretched across my heart. How lucky I am to have a front row seat to his future! While I don’t know what next year will hold for him, I am certain that he will go forth and experience life to its fullest. Then, he’ll come home or call to tell me all about it. As the date grows ever near, my excitement is bubbling. I am riding a swelling wave of joy as we enter a season steeped in celebration. The next few weeks hold events, ceremonies, and parties—a right of passage for both him and me. As he steps boldly into this next phase of life, I can pause to acknowledge how far we have both come. As I made the conscious decision to be present and open to enjoying one of life’s bittersweet moments, I began to ponder what other areas of my life are coloured by my mindset and the language I use. Two phrases which slip out of my mouth on a regular basis are, “I’m tired” and “I’m busy.” While these statements are often so very true, they are also self-fulfilling prophecies, somewhat laced with negativity. Language is a powerful tool. It influences our mental health, our energy, and our general state of wellbeing. Yet we throw words around like confetti, letting them land haphazardly where they fall. What I have learned in walking towards my son’s graduation is that the words I use become the thought patterns which play over and over in my mind. Therefore, I need to become intentional with how I speak about life’s circumstances. I’m not saying we need to become happiness robots, because there is nothing more inauthentic or obnoxious. What suggesting is that energy flows where attention goes. If there is even the slightest glimmer of positivity in a situation, that’s where I am going to focus. That will become my reality. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I am off to pour myself a glass of champagne and toast my son’s massive accomplishments, bright and shiny future, and my epic fucking emotional transformation. Cheers!  There is no greater gift you can give yourself than time with your girlfriends.
To be in the presence of humans who innately understand your struggles as a female, a mother, and a spouse is a feeling every single woman deserves. To hear, the words “I totally get it” and know such deep empathy is authentically true, borders on divinity and forges a powerful connection. To be in the presence of humans who build you up, cheer you on, and joyfully celebrate your triumphs fills the soul with champagne bubbles and glittery sparkles like nothing else can. To be in the presence of humans who will step up in a pinch because they know how much you juggle, brings a sense of security and gratitude which forms a foundation so solid, we become empowered to carry the weight of our lives. Knowing there are people who can drop off meals, pick your kid up from school, and carpool helps us sleep better at night. Every woman needs a circle of badass girlfriends who have her back, pick her off the floor, lovingly mock her idiosyncrasies, hold her secrets, and love the crap out of her. Yet, we often fail to devote sacred time and energy to these beautifully fulfilling relationships. Why? Because life gets in the way. We are so busy that coffee dates are squeezed in between school drop off and grocery pick up. We schedule wine nights six weeks from Tuesday, three years from now. I’ve decided that this is no longer okay with me. My girlfriends are the bearers of gifts my husband simply cannot offer. I need them. Miguel doesn’t laugh at the same memes as I do because his life experience is vastly different than mine. He loves to dance with me romantically in the kitchen, but he won’t do the robot, the Running Man, or twerk to 90s hip hop. I guarantee the man won’t spend an hour choreographing a synchronized swimming routine in the pool simply because that tickles my sense of silliness and fun. My girlfriends will. When I tell Miguel that I ran 5km, cleaned the bathroom, baked spinach muffins, and re-painted the banisters all before lunch time, he thanks me for my efforts (Mostly because he isn’t a stupid man. He knows gratitude is the expected response.) but doesn’t share the deep gratification of being so productive. My girlfriends, however, will display the appropriate amount of awe and admiration. “Oh my God. You are a fucking rock star!” Don’t get me wrong. My husband is wonderful, and I adore him, but he understands me on a different plain than my girlfriends do. Obviously. One of the most damaging mistakes in a marriage is expecting your spouse to be your everything. Miguel is my rock, my partner in life, my best friend, my lover, and hopefully my future. However, we have diverse perspectives, opinions, and experiences which do not always align. We have very different senses of humor, hobbies, and interests. We thrive in spending time apart. I don’t need Miguel to fulfill these parts of my life because I have chosen to nurture close relationships with my girlfriends. They are key ingredients to making my life feel whole. Recently, Miguel asked if I would remarry if he were to die before me. After thinking for a moment, I offered a response which surprised both him and me. While I would like to date casually, and maybe even experience meaningful connection with another man, I don’t see myself marrying again. Instead, I will buy a cozy house with a large deck and a lush garden and open my home to my girlfriends. How easy would it be to live with people who communicate like me, think like me, and know how to sweep the fucking floor without being asked? I’ll ride out the rest of my life enjoying a gigantic slumber party with brilliant women who make me giggle. The Golden Girls knew where it was at! “Won’t you miss having someone to sleep beside at night?” he wondered. “I’ll buy a dog.” The truth is, if I really want this dream to become my reality, I need to prioritize my female relationships and nurture them lovingly. I need to make time for them, organize gatherings and adventures, show up in times of adversity, and support their journeys through life. They will, after all, be the ones changing my adult diaper in years to come.  Not long ago, my husband asked why I’ve always been unafraid to make enormous changes in my life.
He went on to explain that other people seem to contemplate change, imagine a different reality, plan and plot but never take action. Their desire for consistency, comfort, and certainty trumps any wondering about the unknown. Despite what I’d like you to think, bravery is not what drives me towards change. The motivating force behind my ability to step into uncertainty is depression. My mental health motto used to be, “Fuck depression. It sucks.” As I grow wiser (I’ve stopped using the phrase “grow older”.), I am slowly befriending my mental health and am beginning to embrace the ways depression serves me. When I reflect on seasons in my life which have been highly transitionary, each one of them has been preceded by depression. It seems that my brain is incapable of ignoring even the tiniest seedling that something in my life is in misalignment. The longer I push aside an inkling, not wanting to pay attention, the more it takes root, grows larger, and eventually wraps its tendrils around every thought. As I sink deeper into melancholy, I begin to realize that unless I address the issue, the vines will continue to squeeze until I suffocate. Take action or be pulled into the dark depths of the soil. For me, there are no other options. Do I wish my brain worked another way? Often. But in retrospect, I can see that my depression serves as a pause. In the context of my busy life—full of obligations and distraction—my mental health slows me down so I can evaluate the situation. It is only from this place that I feel inclined to make the massive, necessary shifts to improve and evolve my life. As author and psychologist Richard Schwartz Ph.D. teaches, there are no bad parts of us. Every trait we have developed has served a purpose—to protect, to cope, to motivate. In my forties, I am beginning to believe this to be true. We need to acknowledge and honor even the most inconvenient aspects of ourselves. And, I can honestly say that while every massive change I have undertaken has been terrifying (and the preceding depression, no fun at all), it has also paid off one way or another. Have I known that in the moment? Hell no! Any sane human will (and should) question their own drastic choices. Was this epically stupid or outrageously brave? TomAto, tomato. Only time will tell. After talking with my husband, I took a moment to look back at my history of decision-making. I can confidently say that even when outcome of my choices were harder than anticipated, I have learned a lot. You need to look back to keep moving forward. Many of us panic in the gap between where we’ve been and where we’d like to be. One strategy which reminds us to dig deep and keep moving forward is to pause and look back on how far we’ve come. If we only look forward, we will only be reminded that we aren’t there yet. And, the target keeps moving as we achieve and re-adjust our goals. Whenever I am in a moment of unsurmountable doubt, I make a list of all the audacious choices, small wins, and life-changing wisdom I’ve acquired through striving for change. Asking “What have I gained?” reminds me that progress, no matter how small, is still forward movement. You cannot change by remaining the same. If I truly desire to alter my life and create more balance, adventure, and joy I have to let go of anything which feels stale (but safe). Drastic difference requires drastic action. Become a barnacle upon someone who’s already done the hard thing. You don’t know what you don’t know. When embarking upon a new chapter, the best thing to do is find someone who has achieved what you desire, or who has survived the giant obstacle and come out thriving. Educate yourself, find a mentor, and emulate those who’ve already found success. Regardless of the outcome—lifechanging win or dumpster fire disaster—I will always be proud that I tried, that I attempted to claim a lifestyle I wanted live rather than be trapped in one that wasn't fulfilling. Even when I fail, I become a better, smarter, wiser human. No regrets. Thank you, Depression.  The older I get, the more cognizant I am of the rarity of beautiful, magical moments. You know the ones—a glistening bubble of perfection which hovers in the air for just a moment before it pops. They are fleeting, but you know they existed long after they dissipate.
I recently went on vacation with my husband, children, and parents. In the months of planning leading up to this adventure, my husband and I worried about how to balance the realism of our budget with the loftiness of our vision. With one child graduating in mere months and age creeping up on my parents, I knew this window in time might be our only opportunity in the impending future. We decided to just go for it—plan the vacation of our dreams. If it took six months to pay off our debt, the investment in creating a core memory for our family would be worth every penny spent. We weren’t wrong. The end of each day brought a fulfilling exhaustion resulting from hours of exploration and fun. While our days were filled with awe and joy, each one held a specific moment which shined brighter than all the rest. Three teenage boys silent around a dinner table, except for groans of gratitude as the spice and salt of a taco hit their tongues. The eruption of laughter, so deep from the belly that it halted our ability to walk. The sight of my mother unabashedly diving into the crashing waves with her grandsons. Bubbles of perfection. I recognize that vacations aren’t attainable for all. Magical moments are, however. They float across our awareness in everyday life. Often, we are too busy to notice their momentary presence. The sound of your children singing in the back seat of the car. The sight of your spouse immersed in a culinary experience—humming and swaying to the background music as they sprinkle the exact amount of spice over a simmering pan. A dragonfly gently hovering over a blooming flower. Sitting on a patio, sun warming your face, as your girlfriends double over in laughter. Notice these bubbles before they pop. Sear them into your brain. Life gives us little gifts consistently and often. Even though the bubbles are so delicate that they break as quickly as they are formed, we can hold them forever in our memories. We can come back to them again and again, especially on difficult days. When my children no longer live in my home, when my parents are gone, I will have these moments crystalized in my mind forever. And then, I will continue to look for more—with my friends, my spouse, and even on my own.  It’s one o’clock in the morning as I write this. And no, Reader, I am not a night owl who does her best work after the world has gone to sleep. Quite the opposite, in fact. I am often in bed as the hands on the clock strike eight thirty, deeply grateful that the time has come to get cozy in my duvet and crack open a juicy novel.
Why am I awake at this God-forsaken hour of the night? Because I have a love-hate relationship with red wine. I am no stranger to terrible sleep patterns. My REM is often disrupted by stress or hormones, causing me to sneak downstairs to read in the middle of the night, hoping the soft rhythmic tick of the clock on the wall lulls me back into Dream Land. The correlation to red wine, however, seems to have forged in the last few months and I am deeply annoyed by it. I understand that age alters metabolism. As a result, in recent years I have given up meat, most dairy products, and sugar. Not because I am a diehard health nut who treats her body as a temple, but because of the way those foods make me feel. Bloated, gassy, painful stomach aches ravaged my late thirties until I slowly learned which foods my body could tolerate. The list of banned substances seems to be ever-growing in my quest to feel good. I can live without ice cream, bread, and steak. But now red wine? Come on! Give a girl a break! As I type these words in the wee hours of the morning, I am pondering other ways my body is changing. Perimenopause seems to be the gift that keeps on giving! Night sweats are a treat. I swear they started the day after I turned forty when I woke up marinating in my own juices. These spells seem to come and go, cycling with my hormones. There will be weeks when my internal furnace functions optimally and others when someone has cranked the thermostat to “Flaming Hot Cheetos” levels. Waking up with my t-shirt soaking wet and stuck to my skin has really put a damper on morning cuddles with my hubby. It’s just not cute. All of this makes me wonder when I should stop ingesting that little white pill I’ve religiously swallowed since I was a sixteen-year-old girl. At what point do I cease to chemically control my hormones and let my body follow its natural course? And what will happen when I do? If insomnia and night sweats are pushing through the chemical barrier of a regulated cycle, what the holy hell will happen when the road is “all clear”? I’m aware that the signs are beginning to point towards Menopause Town, but I also fear an unexpected detour into Pregnancy-ville. Just the thought of strollers, bottles, and diapers makes me want to keep taking The Pill well into my eighties. And, just to make you giggle, I will admit to trying face yoga recently. Apparently, the Instagram algorithms are detecting my age, as face yoga apps keep popping up in my feed. One app suggestion, I could bypass with ease. Two piqued my curiosity. Three made me examine my jawline in the mirror. Suddenly, it made sense. I have always exercised the rest of my body but have naively ignored my face. Did you know there are forty-three muscles which I’ve been neglecting? Now, in the privacy of my bathroom, I can be found looking waaay up and sticking my tongue out as far as it will go. I stretch my neck like an elderly turtle and make O shapes with my mouth. But you’ve gotta keep that jawline taut, girl! Despite the increasing unfamiliarity I have with my body, I am also growing to love her more and more. It’s paradoxical, I know. After years of rigorous activity in the pursuit of athleticism—cross fit, marathons, triathlons… After jogging thousands of miles to keep myself fit… I have learned to approach exercise in a gentler, loving way. My daily runs have been replaced by long walks where I listen to audiobooks and podcasts. My face yoga is complemented by “normal person yoga” stretching my body in a graceful way. I’ve learned to appreciate going to the gym because weightlifting makes me feel strong. I am listening to my body more and more, realizing that she tells me what she needs. And, after serving me well for four and a half decades and birthing two babies, I am learning that she sometimes deserves a break. Go easy today, Kel, I am tired. Even though I am ten pounds heavier than I was a few years ago, I can honestly say this is the most confident I’ve ever felt in my own skin. Maybe age and wisdom has put things in perspective a little. So, even though my body demands that I give up red wine… Even when she sweats during the night like I’ve slept in the fiery pits of Hell… Even when she begins to look differently in the mirror… I am grateful for her strength and endurance. May we grow old together.  I talk to myself. A lot.
I don’t actually speak to me, but to a future version of me. She’s wiser and more grounded. She has walked through the fire and come out the other side. She gives less fucks. I’ve named her Joy. I met Joy through the process of a guided meditation which my mentor calls “Your Future Best Self”. Joy has been with me ever since. The meditation invites you to envision a future version of yourself--ten or twenty years from now. Settling into my breath, Joy began to appear. I envisioned her in beautiful detail—the silver of her hair, the slender shape of her body, the luxurious, flowy clothes she wore, and the simple jewelry she chose to accentuate with. Most of all, I felt her energy—calm, knowing, inviting, warm. I witnessed the way she drew people in. I could hear the sound of her laughter—explosive and boisterous, full of well, joy. As the meditation came to a close, I was invited to write a letter to Joy. In it, I shared my hopes, my dreams, and my struggles with her. Joy wrote back and drew upon a depth of wisdom and love--imparting advice, and direction. Let’s pause to acknowledge the ridiculousness of that last sentence because I can hear you judging. She knows that she’s writing to herself, right? Yes, thank you. I know that I’m writing to me from me. Until you try it, you might not understand the power of writing a letter to yourself. Pretending to be My Future Best Self offered a degree of separation from my current struggles. That space created room for wisdom. Try it. I dare you! Soon, I realized I could talk to Joy whenever I wanted. Sometimes I write to her. Other times I speak to her in meditation or aloud as I am driving alone in my car. I ask her questions and wait patiently for her to respond. What would you do, Joy? What brings me closer to you? What do you think about this opportunity? Who would you ask for help? How would you handle this conversation? She always, always answers. I know. It all sounds totally woo-woo. It’s a little out there. (Maybe for some, it’s really out there.) But here’s why it works, at least for me. Joy is my North Star. She reminds me of who and how I want to be. The wisdom she holds, the warmth she emanates lives within me all of the time. The more I access those traits, the more I become her in real time. Joy is me. I am Joy.  If you are familiar with Dr. Seuss, you may remember this classic passage:
The Waiting Place… …for people just waiting. Waiting for a train to go Or a bus to come, or a plane to go Or the mail to come, or the rain to go Or the phone to ring, or the snow to snow Or waiting around for a Yes or No Or waiting for their hair to grow. Everyone is just waiting. ~ Oh, the Places You’ll Go These words perfectly sum up the theme of my life over the past six months—the purgatory of a mother who is not needed as often as she’s used to. As my boys grow into men and begin to venture into the world on their own, I found myself in this strange new parenting phase. I saw it coming and thought I was emotionally prepared. After all, they are becoming confidently independent, as they should be. My job, I decided, was to simply hold space for my kids—letting them have as much freedom as they could handle responsibly, and simply be available when they needed to talk, solve problems, or wanted to share. However, as their lives grew bigger and richer, they had less and less time to spend with me. They were busy and content and I was still holding space. Alone. Thus, The Waiting Place. I was waiting for the phone to ring Or a text to come Or a problem to arise Or a task for Mom I was just freaking waiting. Needless to say, boredom grew into loneliness and loneliness grew into misery. One day, listening to a podcast while at the gym, I was struck by a wisdom bomb dropped by comedian Tig Notaro who said, "The best gift you can give anyone is a well-lived life of your own.” Read that again. It’s profound. It struck me that I was not living my own life. For nearly eighteen years, I lived for my boys and forgot about myself. While I thought I was personifying a deep value and joy for parenting, what I actually modeled was that my life was secondary to theirs. Would I want my kids to be paralyzed in The Waiting Place? Would I want my life for my kids? No! My greatest hope for my children is for them to live joyfully, passionately, and with immense gratitude for their blessings. I want them to wake with intention and live with purpose. Yet, I wasn’t doing that for myself. If, like me, you have found yourself in The Waiting Place, here are the tools I used to extricate myself:
As cliché as it sounds, life is too short to be wasting away, waiting for others to need you. Take control and learn to love your own life. And, as Dr. Seuss says, Be your name Buxbaum or Bixby or Bray Or Mordecai Ali Van Allen O’Shea, You’re off to Great Places! Today is your day! Your mountain is waiting. So, get on your way! |
AuthorKel Cleeve. Archives
October 2024
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