But consider for a moment what would really happen if you disappeared from your life. How many things would fall apart or go undone? Those little things you spend your day doing seem little only because we’re not in the habit of giving ourselves credit for them—as meaningful work. In reality, we are so freaking important and needed, even our smallest contributions are vital to keeping our families on track. But instead of marveling at all the minor miracles we perform, we lie in bed at night wide awake, feeling guilty, beating ourselves up for the one thing we overlooked. The emotional burden of the guilt we shoulder is probably more exhausting than the actual endless everyday parenting tasks we accomplish. Now, I’m no sleep expert, but here’s a tip I have found that works well: give yourself more credit than criticism, more grace than judgment, and you’ll fall asleep more peacefully.
I invited a few friends over once to make a video with me, and I asked them to share with me some of the worst things they tell themselves throughout the day. One said, “I tell myself that I’m lazy and a pig.” Another said, “I’m constantly telling myself that I’ll never lose this weight I’ve gained.” Another called herself a selfish liar. Another admitted, “I tell myself almost on a weekly basis, if not daily, that I’m just not a good enough mother to my kids.” When I pressed them to really think about those statements and weigh them against reality, each woman agreed that there wasn’t much truth there. And yet after repeating those insults over and over again, they had unintentionally and unconsciously made them a part of their identity. It’s amazing how much of our guilt is built upon lies. After each woman was done sharing her negative thoughts, I surprised them by pulling out a childhood picture of each of them. I asked them to look at that little girl in the picture and tell her the same words that they had been telling themselves. Could they tell that little girl she was a lazy pig or not good enough?
Not one of them could do it. They didn’t have the heart to say those cruel words to a younger version of themselves, but they had no problem being their own worst bully now. As they realized how extreme the negativity they’d been carrying about themselves was, it was impossible not to get emotional. I urge everyone to try this powerful exercise. In fact, I’ve recently talked to my older kids about this and made sure they each have a childhood picture up in their bedrooms. I want them to learn to talk to themselves with kindness, too. Somehow, looking at a childhood photo of ourselves makes us realize how much love and care we need and deserve.
The truth is that we’re hard on ourselves because we hate falling short of our own expectations. We hate that we struggle with this parenting thing in a way we hadn’t predicted we would before we had kids. That’s the whole reason we feel unnecessary guilt, isn’t it? We feel guilty because we feel like we’re failing. We feel like we’re failing because we’re not living up to our expectations. But the only reason we’re not living up to them is because those expectations were completely ridiculous, semiabusive, and unrealistic in the first place! So we obviously need to set some new expectations. Give this some thought: it would break your child’s heart to hear anyone speak to their mommy the way you speak to yourself.
Whenever I’m feeling like a terrible person or a terrible parent, it’s usually not because I’m truly terrible but because I am telling myself a bad story about me. Stories are powerful things. Tell yourself a story often enough, and it can start to shape your reality.
So the story I try to tell myself now is this: I am someone who is extraordinary in some ways and at some times, but very average most of the time. Rather than lying in bed at night feeling guilty about all the things I didn’t accomplish (which basically means feeling guilty that I’m not a robot who can stay alert twenty-four hours a day while perfectly executing all 2,547 things on her to-do list), I try to switch my mind-set and do the opposite. I wipe off the guilt mascara one layer at a time and I start thinking about all the things I did accomplish: My kids have been fed and loved today. My house is still standing. I returned one phone call. I paid a bill. I didn’t die. I peed. (Occasionally even in private! Bonus points for that.)
Resetting my expectations to align with a more realistic bar acknowledges that I’m winging this whole be-a-good-human thing as best I can. It means accepting that sometimes I will screw up. I will make mistakes. I will be a terrible example for my children at times. But continually beating myself up accomplishes nothing good. There’s no valedictorian in parenting. Being average is completely acceptable. We’re not failing. We’re learning! Why beat ourselves up for learning? That’s something to be proud of! Plus every day is a second chance to suck at life less. (Can I get an amen?) So let’s just love our families fiercely and try not to completely lose our minds.*
Six
I Didn’t Tell
The first time was when I was five. He was a clean-cut, nice-looking grandpa type who, after watching us flail around a bit, had stepped in to give my friend and me some pointers on how to swim. But he wasn’t teaching me to swim; he was putting his hand inside my bathing suit and occasionally even sticking his finger inside of me. The only details that stand out vividly are the feeling of his hand sliding under my bathing suit bottom and the sound of the fans that were running full blast at the indoor pools. To this day the sound of a loud fan makes me feel anxious. Small. Used.
I didn’t tell. I didn’t tell a single soul, not even my mom.
For years after that incident at the public pool, I had a recurring nightmare: I’m lying on a table in a small dark room. There is no other furniture in the room. There are no windows, no decorations. The walls are bare and dark gray. I’m not sure if I’m tied down or not, but I’m unable to move. I’m five or six or seven years old, whatever age I was each time this nightmare came back to haunt me, and grown men are taking turns, one by one, entering the room and touching my private parts. Though I’m a little older each time this nightmare occurs, the state of my helplessness remains the same. I never seem to outgrow my inability to fight back or even speak up.
If I woke up from the nightmare and anyone asked why I was crying, I would lie. “I was being chased by the big, bad wolf.” At the time, it didn’t seem like there was any other option but to lie. How could I ever tell the truth about something so shameful? I was a bad girl for letting someone touch me like that in real life and I was a bad girl for continuing to have those thoughts in my head for years after.
The event at the swimming pool haunted me and, instead of fading with time, intruded on my thoughts more and more as I approached puberty. My mom could tell something was wrong, and when I was twelve or thirteen years old, she gently remarked one afternoon that I hadn’t seemed like myself lately and asked if there was anything I wanted to talk about. Finally, tearfully, I told her what the man in the pool had done. We were sitting on her bed and she wrapped me up in her arms and said the words I needed so badly to hear: “It wasn’t your fault. I’m so sorry that happened to you.” I didn’t remember his name and I couldn’t even describe his face so there was nothing we could do to get justice, but just sharing the secret I had been carrying all those years made me feel like I could finally breathe again. And the nightmares stopped.