A Thank You Letter to my Teenager (for teaching me what I didn’t want to know about myself)

Dear Ethan, 

Hey.  

A few days ago, I read this in a life coaching book: 

“Our parents, our children, our spouses, and our friends will continue to press every button we have, until we realize what it is that we don’t want to know about ourselves, yet.
They will point us to our freedom every time.”
(From “Loving What Is,” by Byron Katie)

I’ve been thinking about this a lot, and realizing how true it has been for me.  Today, I found myself crying tears of gratitude for the many ways that you have been an instrument to help me learn things about myself that I didn’t want to know.  It has been difficult and painful, and there have been a lot of times that I have resented it. Resented you, for it. But today, I feel really, truly, deeply, grateful.  So I wanted to say thank you. And share some of the discoveries I have made. 

Motherhood is an incredible journey.  It begins with 9 months of what, if done for any other reason than to create life, would be called torture.  Feeling like I'm going to throw up pretty much constantly for months, my blood sugars going crazy from the constant change in hormones, my skin being stretched literally to it’s breaking point over and over as it continued to make room for the growing body of this baby.  Connected to me.  Living in me. Alive through my energy, my nutrients, leaving me with whatever is left.   Flesh of my flesh.  Part of me. I can’t possibly carry this baby inside of me one more day, I think.  Kicking my ribs. Keeping me up in the night to pee every 2 hours. Constantly stretching my body, stretching my skin, to make room…more room.  Making it impossible to be comfortable in any position, in any moment. And then, delivery. I’ve heard it said that to give birth is to walk through the valley of the shadow of death. I don’t think it’s an exaggeration. The pain is excruciating.  The reality unrelenting. There is no turning back. There is no way out. Only through. Nature demands that it must be done. No matter the cost. 

But the suffering, the agony, the struggle, the sacrifice, is matched, exceeded even, when I hold in my arms this perfect, tiny, fresh-from-heaven child. The fruit of a love so deep, so powerful, as to create life. In that moment, I know my life will never be the same.  And in that moment, I know nothing of what that actually means. 

With a newborn baby, suddenly a daily shower becomes a luxury, and a full night’s rest only a fantasy.  All thoughts center around caring for this new baby.  How to feed him, clothe him, teach him to sleep, every hour of every day.  He can breathe without me now, he can wave his arms and cry without me, but is still totally dependent on me to eat, to be clean, to be warm, to stay alive.  I wonder sometimes:  “Is this child—this flesh of my flesh, actually ME? Or just an extension of me? Or is he himself?”  I think of nothing but what he needs, what his cries mean, when he last ate, when he will sleep again. And whether my body will ever heal from the trauma of bringing him into this world. 

When we hold him, when we look at him, Kyle and I know somehow, that he is a miracle.  That life itself is a miracle.  That as he learns to laugh, and crawl, and walk, and talk, we are witnessing a miracle. 

I will teach him everything I know. I will teach him everything I can, I think. 
I will do everything I can to protect him, to keep him from drinking bleach, swallowing marbles, getting run over by a car, falling down the stairs, or electrocuting himself.
It is my job to protect him. To keep him alive. 

I take my job seriously.  And, I  save his life multiple times a week.  :) 

Fast forward several years… 

The innocent child experiences a metamorphosis and emerges as a teenage boy, an altogether unrecognizable species compared with the fresh-from-heaven baby we once held in our arms. 
My metamorphosis is coming too, but I don’t know it yet. 

There are many days that I just can’t understand. 

Why is this child not ME? 
Why doesn’t he think the way I think?  
Why doesn’t he do things the way I would do them?  
How could something that once WAS me, was once INSIDE of me, be so different from me?  

I was supposed to teach him everything I know, I lament.  
But I didn’t.  I must have failed.  

What I’m sorry about is the period of time when I looked at you and saw a shattered reflection of myself. I looked at you and saw that I was supposed to teach you to work hard in school and get good grades but that I failed.  I looked at you and saw that I was supposed to teach you to stay away from worldly influences that would harm you, and I failed.  I looked at you and saw myself, as a failure.  The thing I wanted never ever to be. The thing I had feared, deep down, all my life, that I WOULD be.  I felt so terrible about myself.  And I resented you for that. 

And that’s what I didn’t know until now, was the real problem. Looking at you and seeing myself instead of looking at you and seeing YOU. I didn’t know that’s what I was doing. And to be fair, you sort of WERE me, for those 9 months I lent my body to you. In a way, for the year that I created the milk that kept you alive hour  to hour.  But never, really. You have always been you.  And in some ways, I didn’t want you to be. I understand that now. 

What I’m sorry for, is all the times I have tried to control you. Tried to get you to do what I wanted you to do.  I didn’t understand that that’s what I was doing.  I thought I was protecting you, teaching you, helping you.  Hopefully I was doing those things too.   But when you really pushed back, when you really lashed out, it was usually in response to me trying to get you to do something you didn’t want to do. Something I thought was best for you, and you didn’t.  We resented each other. 

What I can see now, is that you haven’t been the only one throwing a tantrum in the grocery store having a candy bar pried out of your stubborn fingers. I’ve had tantrums too.  I have wanted control.  I have wanted to hold the reins to your life, to make the decisions, to call the shots.  

To protect him, I would think.  
To keep him safe.
To make sure things turn out ‘right.’
To help him thrive, I told myself.  

But you wanted freedom. I can see that now. Freedom from someone else getting to make your decisions.  Freedom from someone else trying to steer your ship for you.
You have shown me, so very clearly, that your God-given power to choose is not mine to have. 

What is wrong with this child? I sometimes thought. 
Why does he fight me? 
Why doesn’t he trust that we know what’s best for him? 

What I can see now, is that I actually don’t. 

I don’t know what’s best.  I really thought I did. I thought it was my job to know. I thought it was my job to make sure you skipped over all the learning opportunities of your teenage years, and jumped seamlessly into adulthood, without any serious bumps or bruises. It sounds funny, now that I’m typing it. :) I mean, why come to Earth at all, if the point of existence is for your parents to just insulate and protect you from actually living?!  It sounds absurd to me now: “My job is to keep my child from ever needing a Savior. I’m totally powerful enough to do that.” Ha ha ha! Insanity!

Here’s what else I can see now: my view of you always fighting me, has another side: I have also been fighting you.  Fighting you for something God gave you, that I didn’t want you to have: the power to choose, the power to make ‘mistakes.’ I didn’t know I was trying to take that from you.  But you knew you were never giving it up. I see that now.  I honor that in you now. 

“Our parents, our children, our spouses, and our friends will continue to press every button we have, until we realize what it is that we don’t want to know about ourselves, yet. 
They will point us to our freedom every time.”  

And so, my amazing, son, I want to say thank you. Thank you for pressing all the buttons I have. Thank you for helping me to realize what I didn’t want to know about myself. For helping me to face my own fears, my own inadequacies, my own thirst for control and certainty, that has kept me from seeing you. Thank you for being YOU in exactly the way you have, so that I could come to understand that my obsession with trying to prevent mistakes and keep everyone safe isn’t in line with God’s plan at all, and that your agency is in fact…well… yours.  

I want you to know that I think I see you now. 
And I’m so glad that you are not me. 
I’m so glad that you are YOU. 

As I have struggled and learned to accept imperfection in you, what it has really allowed me to do is accept imperfection in myself. 
I’m not afraid of mistakes anymore.
Not afraid of failure.
Not afraid of messing up. 
I can see how all of it is part of learning, part of growth, part of why Jesus died, and part of what God put us on this planet to experience.  

As you have asserted your independence and your right to your own agency, I have been the toddler throwing a fit.  “BUT I WAAAAAAANT IT!!!!” has been my cry. 
But you have always known that it is not mine to have. :) 
I know that now, too. 

And so, you have pointed me toward freedom.  Toward truth. Toward a much more God-like viewpoint of what it means to be a parent.

I want you to know that I love you, Ethan.  
Not the version of me that I somehow thought you were supposed to be. 
I love YOU. 

And I will be forever grateful for the adventure it has been and will be to get to be your mom. :) 

Are you feeling weighed down by the impossible task of trying to prevent your kids from ever making any mistakes?

I’d love to help you shift your thinking on this so you can find joy in your parenting again.

I’m Emily Ricks. I help people transform their thinking so they can feel more joy. As a Certified Professional Life Coach, I work with women who want to reduce feelings of stress, guilt, inadequacy, worry, and overwhelm. I help them become aware of their thinking, envision what matters most, and exchange distressing thoughts for ones that create joy.