I wake up most mornings overflowing with doubts.
Am I on the right path? Am I taking care of this body well enough? This mind? This home? Am I a good enough teacher? Partner? Citizen of the world? Yoga practitioner? Friend?
Most of all, I doubt my mothering.
These doubts aren’t the kind easily soothed by external validation, although when I see the thoughtful and decisive way my son relates, my trust in him overcomes the doubt I have in myself.
I wake up with thoughts. Judgment is my default setting, and every morning I have a choice. The factory setting switches on, and begins its program of ‘should haves’. These are more incisive than the doubts. These thoughts are the pain of my past bubbling up and taking it out on the present me, inflicting suffering to feel less alone in it. There is a long list of things I have done wrong, mostly from the day before but some from way back. This part of me believes I am never enough.
There is just enough truth in the list for me to listen and sometimes believe, because the pandemic has changed me. This past few years my self-motivation, focus, energy level and my relationships have all suffered. I’ve done less to reprogram my factory setting, and it is harder to get back to the wisdom underneath.
Every morning I have a choice:
Walk out of my bedroom with the doubts and judgment still playing through my mind. Everything is colored by them. I look at my home and see the mess. I look at my husband and see complicity. (He is my partner in life and my best friend, so he can’t be separate from all the wrongs. It is easier to blame him than to hold all the guilt alone.) Finally, I judge my parenting, and my child feels that as disappointment or an attack on his existence. I tell him no, I simply see the potential he’s not tapping, or I remember his past enthusiasm for life. I have a cloak of righteousness and I’m very good at using logic to support my arguments. I don’t tell him that my self-doubt and inner critic are the culprit, not him, because then he would have ammunition against me and I could lose. Winning is important to this part of me.
I pause long enough to be with myself, just as I am. I don’t walk out of my bedroom just yet. I pretend I’m still asleep. I remember what’s true: This is not the real me, this is what my factory setting believes. But there’s something underneath. I listen to the truth beneath the long list of criticisms. The feeling that “something’s wrong, something’s missing.” I listen without following the story, I believe the pain underneath. I feel the subtle ache deep in my lungs, as I breathe into this part of me that never feels like enough. This part of me that is armored so meticulously by the critic, hiding underneath. I spend some time with her, first thing in the morning, so she feels seen. Then, when I walk out of my bedroom things look different. I see the trees out the window, smell the coffee brewed fresh by my husband, feel the bones of my son as I snuggle by his side, joining him in his world. I turn towards the sun and express gratitude for my life.
This is how I reprogram my settings.
What do I actually do, in those few minutes after waking?
I give in to my inner critic. I’m not willing to deny any part of me a voice, even my inner critic. After listening for a bit, then it’s my turn. She doesn’t like to hear this, but I say it anyway:
“I’m imperfect and I’m okay with that.”
It doesn’t take long. Sometimes I just lie there and listen, sometimes I roll around in bed and breathe and stretch.
What’s important is that I don’t use my movement, affirmation, or breathing practice to gaslight myself. I did that for years and it kept me going, but also did damage. I’m good at it. I have so many tools to “feel better” that I can power through until burnout slams me down.
There are times when those calming tools are important, but that’s not what I’m doing in those precious waking moments. I am interested in the truth of what’s here.
It is a subtle practice of self-healing. I know it will unfold for the rest of my life.
Meditation teacher Tara Brach often shares the image of a solid gold Buddha covered over with layers of clay. After centuries, no one knew about the gold until the statue was moved, and accidentally dropped. The cracks revealed the hidden gold shining through.
I look for the gold by peering into the cracks in my own wounded psyche.
I’m parenting my inner child with compassion.
The hidden part of me doesn’t come out every day. When she does, I do my best to slow down and listen. She has so much to teach me. She is so vulnerable. There was a time that too much was expected of her, and she couldn’t handle the crush of defeat, so she retreated.
She is the one who is untouched by any achievement, no matter how great. My husband could treat me like Venus and do all the chores and she would still feel unsupported while seeing the chaos and clutter as a personal failing. My book could be featured by Oprah and she would still doubt her worthiness as a writer. I could walk 5 miles and practice yoga for hours, and still she would believe my body needs more exercise. I could prepare for a retreat meticulously, fill it with wonderful students, guide them through a transformative weekend, and she’d still doubt my ability to lead. My son could achieve honors, get a fantastic job and fall in love, and she would still judge my mothering.
Nothing is ever enough to seal the crack. So instead, I learn from this imperfection.
It felt like a survival imperative, and I couldn’t succeed.
There was a time when, as a child, I was given more responsibility than I could handle. It was sold as an honor, a shining achievement, rather than the heavy burden it was. The child was crushed and the armor of responsibility grew hard around her. I was only worthy if I could care for others well while also excelling academically. Since that was often an impossible task, she shrunk.
My parents divorced when I was 6, and we didn’t have enough support.
I was reminded yesterday (by an email exchange with a parent I know) how young I was when that happened. Unsupervised and uprooted, I was kicked out of school in third grade for not keeping up with the work. That detail was kept from me, and a new story constructed, but the shame seeped through anyway.
My mom recently wrote this, as an explanation for the responsibility she heaped on me: “I could rely on you to do as I said to the best of your ability.” So, I was adultified because I was obedient and motivated to succeed. Also, apparently, no one else was available to be an adult. I was good at pretending to be capable.
I’m not blaming my parents. Cycles like mine go back as far as patriarchy does.
The wound is where the light enters, AND the motherhood myth is crushing, AND cultural inequity is responsible.
My own child rarely does as I say, and when he does it is because of our closeness, or because he agrees with me, not because of fear. He’s being a kid. My self-worth was tied up in how responsible I was. It felt like a survival imperative.
“…I said: What about my heart?
He said: Tell me what you hold inside it?I said: Pain and sorrow.
He said: Stay with it. The wound is the place where the Light enters you.”-Rumi
I need to tap into that young, hurt part of me because that’s where I find the light of compassion. I could tell myself, I’m not her anymore. I’ve grown up. That is true and not true. She is still here all the time. She was broken, and she needs the grown up me to help her heal. As I reach towards her with tenderness, she teaches me about more than my own suffering.
She was created by my culture, not just my traumatic childhood.
That childhood was a symptom of the cultural myth of motherhood. The responsibility for raising children cannot fall on one primary caregiver. It really is too much for two. Raising children is the culture’s job, and when it is distributed more equitably, it is an honor rather than a burden.
How is this post about Mother’s Day?
The weight our culture gives this day is a symptom. That weight is placed on the shoulders of individual parents. The implicit and explicit pressure for the day (much less the child’s life) to be perfect, we will crack under this. It is too much responsibility. There’s no way for me to win at mothering.
I wake every morning and am confronted with my programming, which is telling me I have failed and I need to do more in order to be worthy. My self-compassion practice reminds me:
“You need to do less. You are enough. You are love.”
I know I am not the only parent cracking open, but when I wake up to the list my inner critic has been writing all night long, it feels lonely. I think of other parents like me, and I’m comforted by Leonard Cohen’s line:
“Forget your perfect offering.
There’s a crack in everything.
That’s how the light gets in.”-From ’Anthem’ by Leonard Cohen
Unshakable trust arises from the courage to turn towards the disowned parts of ourselves.
I’d like offer a practice, especially for those who read to the end! Here’s the one I turn to most often when I’m feeling doubt: Vajrapradama Mudra.
It may surprise those who, like me, were socialized by the harsh motivation of an inner critic, that self-compassion and mindfulness have helped me become a more loving and authentic friend, partner, teacher, citizen, parent. Self-compassion motivates me way more effectively than self-criticism.
I can hold the big feelings of others because I have held my own. It only feels heavy because it is pure gold.
Lots of vulnerability in this. So powerful.