Authentically me. Just not the old me.

When I was a teen girl and trying on different personal styles and demeanors, I admired my best friend’s mother extravagantly.  She was an artist, tall and slender, gracious and thoughtful.  Their family dinners were beautifully plated and elegantly presented (before that was a “thing”) and their home was filled with artistic and unique objects.  I wanted to absorb all of it through my pores and become more like her. That’s who I’m going to be like, I would tell myself.

I grew into my later teens and young adulthood, borrowing from many styles and ways of moving through life.  I would read about women who made a difference, who created worlds through their writing or, through their art, changed how we saw things.  I would grab a little of this and that and make it mine.  I thought I was pretty happy with this version of me.

Then I had my son.

My son needed an advocate, a persistent, smart, untiring mom who knew how to collaborate but hold the line.  The me I had carefully crafted didn’t really match his needs.  He needed a different version of me.

I found myself doing what I had done as a teen girl – grabbing a turn of phrase here, an emotional or intellectual approach there.    I looked around for new role models.  I would watch a veteran parent do a training on special education and note that she wore serious but casual clothes in somber colors, unlike my pastels. “Do they take her more seriously at school meetings?” I wondered. I listened to national parent leaders who challenged others to stop using adult language to describe children like my son.  Even better, they insisted that we all stop using words that blamed or disrespected parents. I watched amazing parents stand in front of a crowded room and tell their story and cry and rant and cajole and pull the crowd along with them.  They put on full display feelings that I was feeling too, but shied away from showing in public.  I listened to champions for children’s mental health who were pushing the state systems they worked within to make changes; they were the insider advocates, feisty one day and implacable the next.

I found out an important thing from trying on – often silently – the characteristics I knew could serve the new me.  It has to be authentically you, even though it’s not the old you.

Self-help books will tell you that to change yourself you have to change your life.  If you change a habit, like going to the gym or saving money, you can then change yourself.  You go from being a person who doesn’t exercise or save your money to one that does.  The change happens from the outside in.

Just the opposite happened for me.  My life changed whether I liked it or not.  It certainly wasn’t deliberate or selective. My son was an almost-typical little boy and in a very short time turned into a boy who had meltdowns, panic attacks, regular nightmares and talked about dying.  I was the same person inside except I was freaked out a lot of time, full of self-doubt and overwhelmed.  And suddenly ineffective.

The deliberate self-help model also incorporates the luxury of trying again and again.  If you don’t go to the gym this month, maybe next month you can take up running or yoga.  I usually felt that I didn’t have that luxury.  If something didn’t work, I was making mental changes on the way home.  Sometimes I was tossing out the old, even as I walked out the door from a meeting about my son. I went back to my teenage ways and tried on different characteristics and at times, personas.  I was firm, I was persistent and often, much tougher.  When I didn’t have it in me, I simply channeled those veteran parents I had watched and listened to.

After a few years, I became the parent leader others viewed as a model for themselves.  Once, when I was leading a support group, other parents asked how my special education meeting had gone that week.  My school district had agreed to an outside placement with the entire team, then had secretively started sending packets to inside programs.  I wrote a few emails pointing out that this was flouting special education law and copied several people up the chain.  At the next meeting, I steeled myself to not smile, not to nod and be aloof and formal, which was something I could not have pulled off just a few years earlier. I channeled a tougher, stronger version of me. When the special education person smiled at me, I remained unsmiling.  When she leaned across to touch my hand, I pulled it slightly back.  When she asked if there was something wrong, I told her, knowing she had read the emails and had a pretty decent idea of my concerns.

I looked her firmly in the eye and said, “My son needs us all to stay with the agreement for placement.  I am counting on you and so is he.”  When I told this story, one of the parents at the support group listened and said, “I didn’t know you could talk like that at a school meeting.”  She took it and ran with it, however, becoming a firm, serious, unemotional, strong parent at her daughter’s next school meeting.  We both got the services our children needed.

Sometimes I still miss the old me, the one I crafted so carefully.  She saw the world as a kinder one and was more patient in waiting for things to change.  Then I think of those veteran parents who insisted on respect for parents and to take them seriously.  I remember the ones who laid their stories, their sorrow and hope, out in full view, believing their stories would power change.  And I consider the old me and whisper, “Nah.  I’m good.”

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1 thought on “Authentically me. Just not the old me.

  1. Brava Lisa. I also feel this about the friends I now make (and keep) and the people I spend my time on.

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