I just had a conversation with a friend, and I was able to voice out some things I would not have realized if I did not use that part of the brain that processes words via verbal communication. It happens to me sometimes. Maybe because there is an audience. The audience this time is my friend “K”. I have high regards for her, because, like me, she also suffered adverse childhood experiences in terms of parental upbringing. I look up to her because she is a success in her career. And what’s more, she is active in multiple areas of self-improvement, something I cannot pull off as much as I should.
As much as I “should”. That was the topic I was able to voice about. You see, when I talk to K I feel the strong urge to compare myself to her achievements. It has taken me a long time to get over this comparison habit. A while ago, I wrote an essay about what I call “Career Envy”. In this piece I detailed how I got over comparing myself with others. I guess, based on our conversation yesterday, I am not quite done.
I was a tad defensive. Maybe speaking with K brought me to close proximity of my insecurities—that’s it, I am still insecure. Painfully so. Insecure, defensive, self-punishing, self-insulting. Up to now, I keep on beating myself up with my coulda woulda shoulda. But the difference between the me years ago, and the me now, is my willingness to self-forgive.
A few days ago, I spent hours handling a sibling rivalry situation. Have you been in one of those situations? The back-and-forth negotiations are bloody—it’s as complicated as fixing a Collective Bargaining Agreement. In one of the low points, I held my nine-year-old daughter in bed, she was crying, talking about her feelings. Somehow, it led me to talk about my feelings, and I reached a realization: if it weren’t for me being her mom, I would never learn how to self-forgive, and to a greater extent, self-love.
Backtrack to the time I was zero to nine years old: every day of my life, I heard from my dad that I was a useless, fat, ugly, stupid girl. He wanted a first-born son who will make loads of money. And what he got was a girl who only likes to read and write—lazy, lazy, lazy.
Compare that dialogue to the one I give to my child: as a parent, I see it as my loving responsibility to provide for the physical and emotional needs of my kids. Until such a time that they can fend for themselves, and even beyond that, depending on the circumstance. As a parent, I vow to honor my kids for who they are, I will support their interests and trust that they will find their way in the world. Because inherently, they are good, they are perfect the way they were born. All I need to do is support and guide (sometimes not too gently, because I never was a gentle person, the gentleness is learned, dammit).
I spent ten years of my life immersed in childcare. I threw everything I got into it. Poured my heart into it, but I was not the best mom. I say this because I did not make home-cooked meals, nor did I get my hands dirty with crafting. I did not homeschool my kids.
But these are what other mothers do, these are what supposedly great stay-at-home moms do. But we all do what we do, and I can only do me.
Even if I did not obey the “shoulds”, I parented with a sincere effort, with the primary goal of being emotionally present for my kids as best as I my anorexic self could do.
I can honestly say I gave it my best shot. Sure, I f*cked up once, twice or several times, but I never meant any harm. Childcare was Applied Psychology for me: Experimental Psych, Developmental Psych, Adolescent Mental Health, Child Psychology, Behavioral Psychology, and more. It was a slugfest.
One way of looking at it is that I sacrificed my career on the altar of motherhood. But more and more, I realized that I became a full-time mom because of myself. I was sucked into a vortex, deeply compelled my something deep in my psyche. I suspect it was because of the way I was parented. I do not want my children to be emotionally impoverished. Growing up, all around me there was food. But emotional nourishment? Nada.
I expected nothing in return for my sacrifice of self. But that’s the thing about sacrifice: you give because you want to give. And you give without looking back. You give even if you don’t know what tomorrow holds. Or if what you gave will ever be a replaced. But you give, you give.
And then, one day, when you’re just going about your business, you realize the sacrifice paid off. It gave back but in an unexpected way. It’s not in the shape or form you thought it to may come back (if it ever did) one day. In my case, what I got back in return for the sacrifice was self-love.
Without being a mom, I could never have started to genuinely love myself. I could never have taken steps to slowly nurture my talent, I would not have this level of self-respect. I would forever be self-insulting, telling myself to do the things I don’t like to do. Without being a mom to my two kids, I would not start enjoying, and admitting that I enjoy, the things that mostly matter.
Children are pure—they know what makes them happy. I try to emulate my kids this way: in terms of my job, I am now doing what I know I wanted to do ever since childhood. It’s only now, but it’s never too late, right? Life can begin again at 40(+).
Thinking about it, it’s quite basic: rest when you are tired, pursue your interests, don’t hurt other people, don’t spend more than what you have. Living this way, I can sleep and eat in peace.
I was a tad defensive when I was talking to K. I could not help it because she is a go-getter. I know this is how she expresses self-love. I get that now—we all have different paths, backgrounds, circumstances. How I express self-acceptance and forgiveness isn’t her style. The next time we talk again, I might be less defensive. And maybe by then, I would be more caring towards myself.
