The Other Side of Strength

Events in my life, from birth to recent history, have made me strong. They have challenged me to find within myself strength that upon recollection, I marvel that I was able to muster. This strength has natural side-effects; on the positive side, I am self-confident and assured with a clear knowledge of myself (although it has certainly come into question lately) and what I believe to be right and wrong for me. On the other side of that coin called strength are the less positive traits; stoic, aloof with and what I continue to struggle with, a complete inability to ask for help.

I began challenging this in myself after lunch date over a year ago with my eldest son. We meet regularly, me and my sons, in varying combinations. Rarely but exquisitely at times with all three, sometimes with girlfriends, sometimes only two and, like this occasion, sometimes I enjoy the company of one, allowing me precious time to really delve into his life.

On this date, conversation flowed from his current job (temporary but a good step forward for this young man), his love life (or the at-that-time lack there-of) and his brothers. As the separation of their parents became a long-term reality rather than a short-term solution, I wanted to know how he was dealing with this new normal. He, like any good son who loves his mother, told me that he wants his parents to be happy. That, of course, he would prefer us together but if apart made us happy, then he was happy too. I have amazing sons. For all the challenges they have presented over the years, they are blessings to me and I am thankful I am their mother.

I decided I would ask him for his observations of his brothers as they have gone through this transition; maybe, I thought, they had confided their thoughts to him and he could provide me some insight in how to best support them. “How are they doing, do you think?” I asked. His response shook me to the core. “We are all like you, Mom. We keep our feelings pretty close to our chests. They haven’t said anything.”

I was dumbfounded. I struggled to absorb the impact of his words; his analysis not only of his brothers’ management of this difficult time in their lives, but of my entire approach as a mother.

Suddenly being strong felt different. Suddenly it felt bad. I questioned every move I made as a parent. I know that I provided hugs, kisses and expressions of love and affection in abundance, but in my efforts to provide them a strong female role model had I, in fact, shown them how to stifle their own fears, sadness and disappointment? And what was I to do now?

I possess enough self-knowledge to know from where this stunted aspect of my personality comes. I was born to a young woman unsure of her desire to be a mother. She placed me in foster care while she attempted to sort out her life and her choices. In the two years in their care, I lived in four foster homes before my birth mother gave up all rights to me as her daughter. I was then adopted by a family with the picture-perfect mother, father and daughter; add me, one more for a well-rounded foursome. What the perfect picture didn’t show was an over-abundance of dysfunction and actions that left scars upon each one of us. All of this taught me, imprinted upon me, that the only person in this life I can depend on, is me. My lessons in strength started at the ripe old age of two weeks. I am a leopard, unable to change my spots. What I can do, what I must do, is learn, at this age, how to adapt myself in a way that acknowledges my shortcomings and attempts to fill in the gaps. I need to connect the spots.

I no more want to ask for help than I want to go one full season without getting new clothes. It’s just not me. And it’s not for the reasons you are probably thinking. It’s not because I don’t like to be dependent on others (although that is true); and it’s not because I’m worried they will say no (ok, that's also true). It is, quite simply, because if I am not strong, what am I? This is my persona that I have worked on, cultivated, had thrust upon me and finally learned to embrace and rely upon. How am I, the one that all of my friends refer to as the strong one, supposed to let that go and ask for help? If I am the strong one, who is strong enough to help me? And what kind of burden does that put on them?

I need to figure this out. I need to find the answer and get comfortable in that place so that I can show my sons that it is ok to be vulnerable, sad and scared (which I am) and it’s also ok to share that with people you trust (which I am not). I need to live the change. I need to connect the spots.

If not for me, for my boys. And that’s plenty reason enough.