to my daughter
May 9, 2016 § 8 Comments
This afternoon you came to me in tears, asking for permission to quit band. Your posture was folded over in defeat, your voice resonated with remorse.
I couldn’t rectify the shape of your request with the form of your eagerness this past fall. The way you would lean your torso toward the marching band, rolling down the car window in passing to let the notes drift on cool currents that chased after us as we turned the corner toward school.
You had begun to find a place for your future self in these fleeting glimpses of tall hats and sharp steps.
Looking over my shoulder, I could still see last year’s struggle in this year’s commitment. Weekend practices to supplement lost class time after an extended illness; you had been working to catch up when you fell in love with the rewards of your effort.
Then, this year, band was a familiar family of strangers as you settled into a new school. I was thinking these thoughts quietly as you waited for my answer.
In those short minutes, I wanted to muscle past whatever moment had undone your joy, to order you over the obstacle or help you see your way through. Except, you’ve always been as stubborn as you are sensitive and I was afraid I might chase you further from the truth.
So, I quit – first. I outlined your options and itemized the practicalities. It was only after I mentioned we would need to change your registration paperwork to accommodate choir as the foregone alternative to band that I saw the same fear that had driven you to quit.
Only then did I understand you were terrified of tomorrow’s solo. Standing alone. Judged.
The girl who worked comfortably in the artistic details of her class play wanted no part of center stage.
It was tempting to give you safe harbor, but the truth is our fears have a habit of reappearing in new challenges until we move past that horrible place where our knees knock and our voice wavers. Until we shine a light into the darkest corners of ourself and look lovingly on those imperfect images of self.
You confessed you were afraid you might be awful.
So we joked until you were ready to work. Then, you practiced until giving up something you enjoy to avoid something you fear no longer made sense.
Tonight you are still, palpably terrified. I can sense the closed throat and loose fingers clutching numbly at false bravado even as we set aside your clothes for tomorrow and you settle your clarinet into its case.
Even if you are awful, completely and utterly horrible, this time tomorrow the worst will have come and gone leaving only the joy that was there before fear.
I’ll be waiting on your stories.
Love, Mom
scribblechic 
You are a wonderful mom
I hope, one day, that I will know for certain it was all enough. The not knowing day-to-day; that, of course, is my fear.
Thank you for the note of encouragement.
One day you will know. That day will come when she is at crossroads and needs to decide for herself and she makes the right decision and calls to tell you about it.. 🙂 xo
You’ve done exactly what you needed to do Marie…supported. It will always still be up to her to face those fears, and go through them.
Me, personally, utterly understand her fear…I am terrified to do the center stage thing, and I am currently doing a Toastmasters course to ‘go through’ my fear.
But alas, I have to do this one on my own, my mom, at 84, is a little past my asking her to help. Mind you, she has much wisdom and love (which is support anyway), that I should avail myself of 🙂
I think it’s very brave to confront your fear by consciously facing that demon unguarded. Best of luck!
Thank you kind lady, very appreciated, as your daughter will feel of you 🙂
What a beautiful story! You were able to see through her fear and find the source. I love how you helped her get through.
Thank you, but I think I was more of a sounding board. She got there herself, which, in the end, is the only way she could make a strong decision.
I will say, the hardest parenting skill is listening. It is so easy to want to impart our knowledge, so hard to remember they don’t always need the answer – just a safe place to fall apart.