When Simon was in Kindergarten– junior Kindergarten in fact – we were ‘contacted’ by the school to discuss a ‘behavioral issue’ that was becoming a problem. The problem was that whenever a question was asked during ‘circle time’ Simon would shout out the answer without putting his hand up. 

I couldn’t empathize more.

I try to facilitate sessions with grown-ups and THAT is hard AF so doing it with a bunch of preschoolers would be a fucking nightmare. Logically, I was team teacher. For sure. 100%.

My logical brain – my cool, calm, logic inclined mind – said: I get it. 

It is disruptive. It doesn’t give the other kids the chance to have a turn. It limits the ability of the teacher to evaluate engagement and comprehension. 

Totally reasonable. Simon needs to follow the rules. Everyone does. He is not above the law. 

But my REACTION – my honest to goodness emotional reaction and the dialogue that went through my head (and potentially came out of my mouth) was very, very different. 

My emotional brain – my hot & passionate, mood inclined mind – said: Well, was he right?

Yeah. 

If that doesn’t explain how broken I am, I’m not sure what does. 

For me – being right, being correct, being smart – is something to be proud of and valued. It is something that I have always prided myself on. 

When I my child displayed this value, it was not celebrated. Instead, his failure to adhere to the norms of the classroom was what was highlighted. It was his failure to conform. To follow the rules. And in my mind – my somewhat bonkers and not to be modelled after mind – the intelligence that I valued – for myself and in him – was being de-prioritized. 

And that night, even as we talked him through the value of adhering to the rules of engagement in the classroom and we listed all the benefits of it to the class as a whole, I was secretly proud of him for being right. 

He wasn’t shouting out nonsense. 

Or acting out like a class-clown and saying fart and poop just to get a laugh. 

He was engaging and responding and dialed in.

His enthusiasm was right. His interest was spectacular. His intelligence was something to be celebrated. 

But the MESSAGE from the teacher was to conform. Fit in. 

No one was suggesting the qualities I noted above were of no value… but it presented the opportunity for that misinterpretation. 

A sense that it is binary. That there is a hierarchy of values – things that matter – and that some are more important than others. 

What strikes me now – as a middle-age-year-old – is that I have always allowed someone or something else to set that hierarchy. The most valuable ‘thing’, what strength or resilience or courage or humility or success looked like; I allowed others own and set those definitions. 

Society, media, parents, leaders, coaches, whatever. THEY told me what mattered and I accepted it – blindly and without question. 

I get it. When I was younger I could be excused for deferring to the power and the authority of adults and such. That is what children do. They look to the ones around them that they love and respect to model and inform what is good or right or moral or acceptable. 

But at some point we start hearing our own voice…and we start listening to it. 

Or not. 

When I could hear my own voice, telling me this didn’t feel right or fit or seem like the right priority order or whatever, I chose to listen to the voices of others. Not because I was a child or they had more experience than me or were wiser or whatever. 

Because it was easier. It was less scary. 

It was easier to accept that the internal conflict I was feeling meant there was something wrong with ME. It was on me to ‘fix’ the misalignment between what I was hearing from others and that voice inside me. The one I could hear but was choosing not to listen too… 

When I did that I assumed I was wrong. I assumed my instincts and inner knowing was incorrect. As a person who values data and logic and proof and all that other stuff, it was impossible for me to hypothesize that I could be right and – literally – everyone else was wrong. 

So I battled.

I kept going. I managed what I could and used my coping skills and found moments and slices of relief. Amidst the lockdowns and the fear, the relentlessness of the news cycle and the increasing need for thought leadership, people leadership and community building, I pushed on. I rested when I could and did everything I could to articulate my feelings and my frustration in a transparent and authentic way. I publically examined ideas and welcomed people into my head and my heart by writing and speaking and podcasting. 

After 439 days, all the battle left me. 

It felt like a moment at the time – like the last dying breath – but it had taken actually taken 15 months. 

A little over a year of tiny cuts and hurts; grief and unprocessed trauma; the weight of expectations and noise and the exhaustion of holding on to a moral imperative. The horror of having the reality and lived experiences of so many communities revealed to me in all its horror and brutality and truth. 

For 15 months, I have carried on. Not always well. Because carrying on was something that was prized and prioritized. It was okay to acknowledge the change and the challenge. Accept that things were different and ‘not-normal’. Spend more time, extra time, checking in on each other and encouraging things like rest and mindfulness and exercise and self-care. 

And while all of that helped me survive and contributed to me making it to day 47 or 89 or 213, the damage still added up. 

Until day 439 when I broke. 

When the weight of the reality of the past 439 days got one ounce heavier than I could carry. Like the one degree between water and steam, the pressure ticked over and the scales tipped. 

And I stopped. 

That was 30 days ago. 

And since I stopped surviving, I have been wrestling with a big thought. I wouldn’t call it a realization because I am still thinking about it and suspect, based on experience, that this will not be about a single realization or a switch flipping. Rather this will be a process.

A process starts with the very real possibility that I have been wrong about everything. 

Every. Single. Thing. 

A few years ago I dipped my toes in the water of an experiment of initiating my own mid-life crisis. What I did not know then was how much the universe was going to help and encourage that process to be deep and meaningful by throwing a bunch of curve-balls at me during the onset and continued global pandemic. 

Be careful what you wish for has never seemed more poignant. 

Or ironic.

The idea that I could be wrong about everything is equal parts terrifying and liberating. 

Terrifying for obvious reasons given my ‘control’ issues. Liberating because being wrong means there is opportunity to learn. To change. To be different. To make things different. 

And sometimes you cannot see the lessons as they are presented to you at the time – rather you have to see them somewhere else. In someone else’s story. It may not be obvious at the time but there is a reason why some stories stick around in our memories and I think maybe it is because there is a lesson there for us. 

Remember Simon’s teacher? Well – that time was the first time she called us in to ‘discuss’ some issues but it wasn’t the last. 

The second time she called was only a month or so later. This time she told us that Simon – and a few other little boys – were not following the rules during lunch time. Once again, our son was being disruptive. 

When we went in to meet with her, we learned a bit more about the situation. Turns out, “these” boys were fast eaters. They often finished their lunches early – before it was time to go outside for recess. The rule – for everyone – was that if you finished early, you were to sit on the carpet and read quietly until the recess bell rang. 

But they didn’t. “These” boys usually talked and played and ran around the carpet. As the teacher described this to us, she commented that “they think that is more fun…”

I blinked and said “Well – to be fair – it sounds like fun…”

But that was wrong too. 

They weren’t making a choice between two things. They weren’t choosing fun-stuff over boring-stuff.

They couldn’t read. 

They were little kids. They hadn’t learned to read yet. They were 4-fucking-years-old. 

What they were being asked to do was ridiculous. 

What was ‘required’ of them was completely and severely outside of their capability. Even if they had the capability to read, anyone who has spent any time with any kids will tell you it is a pretty big ask given the self-regulation realities of being 4 years old WITH other 4 year olds. 

And after 439 days, that is was how I felt. 

I have done my best to keep going. I have done ALL the right things and followed the rules and done the meditation and gotten outside every day and moderated my drinking and gotten good sleep. 

And it has helped. 

And I still fill like a 4-year old being asked to sit quietly on a carpet, ignore everything around me and quietly stare at squiggles on a page and make everyone believe that I know how to read. 

And I can’t.

So, I am taking a page from Simon’s book and I am choosing a different choice. It is a choice that is not always understood or pleasant. It is one that might be ill-perceived by others – including those ‘in-charge’ or in positions of power and authority.

This choice may run contrary to the idea or the moral imperative of what resilience and courage and hard work looks like. 

Because I know better. 

Just like Simon knew he couldn’t read and that it was hella more fun to listen to his instincts, his knowing, and run around the circle carpet, I know I can’t keep this up any longer and my knowing is telling me – screaming at me – that something has to change. 

So instead of running around the carpet[1] I am going to listen to that knowing. I am going to take a knee. Go dark. Go inward. Look for information and inspiration. Reflect and retreat. I am going to listen to the experts in mental health and wellness and, most importantly, I am going to not only listen to but trust the expert in what I need and deserve and want and will no longer tolerate. 

Me.

[1] Author reserves the right to run around carpet at a future date