What Matters Most (But Can Also Hurt the Most)

Today, I woke up in a home with three of my four children. My grandpuppy slept in her kennel downstairs, waking me up several times through the night. We were warm and safe, regardless of the extreme storm blowing outside. A wonderful morning. The best of mornings.

Because they are either teenagers or college students, I had hours to work before they awoke. But when they did, the first question I heard was, “Mama, what’s for breakfast?”.

That made me laugh a little inside. They have been away from home for months, if not years now. They have fed themselves (and they do a really good job of it) for that long. It’s only when they come home do they know that I’ll make them eggs and toast, pancakes, French toast…whatever they want. It’s just the way we roll. And it makes me happy that they still want that. It makes me more than happy. It fills my heart up with joy, hard- earned joy.

There is nothing like being with my kids when they are all home together. They don’t always like each other. They certainly don’t have the same religious or political views. But, they do like to sit around a table and eat together, talk over each other, and laugh. They are loud and even a little obnoxious. They throw around our family’s favorite movie and music quotes and do their best to roast each other as often as possible. It’s a good life.

We’ve all read that people on their death bed never regret not having spent more time at work. They regret not having spent more time and energy on what matters most: their families.

And yet, so many of us are hurting because of our families. We have been through divorces, been estranged from parents and children, and spent time being jealous of our siblings. We’ve been abuse by our families and have gotten away from them, our hearts having been shredded. But, here we are…at another holiday season, facing the reality that family, no matter how much they hurt us, matter most.

There is no easy cure for what ails our society. Other than adulting and doing the hard work of self-reflection, introspection, and self-healing, there is no other way. We must look inward before we can expect anything to change on the outside of us. But what is on the inside of us is frightening, so often.

The inside of us holds lies about who we are. Our bodies store our hurts and pains in a way that holds us back…until it doesn’t. To explore where the pain is and where it came from is the most courageous thing we can do.

Families are scary because they have often been the ones to teach us to be inauthentic…just look the part, smile, and behave. They have been the ones to tell us how weird we are, how they don’t “get” us, or how we don’t fit it. They have been the ones to make fun of us, physically abuse us, or emotionally neglect us. Families are hard.

So, is it ever worth it to find the energy and space for people who have hurt us? The stats tell us YES. But the data and conclusions don’t make it easier.

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It was about 8 years ago when I got a birthday card from my parents. My mom is intense around birthdays and holidays. It’s always been a source of real stability for my family. But inside this one, my father wrote a note (I’m sure demanded by my mother).

Dad wrote:

“I never have understood you, but I love you anyway.”

If you knew my father, you would know that he meant it with all love…and an eyeroll. That is the kind of communication he does. His sincerity is always couched in teases. But he means it. He does love me.

But he also doesn’t get me. I am an artist. I have always been a creative. If I am not making messes cooking, baking, creating new gardens, planting flowers, or making/arranging music, I am not okay. It’s just who I am.

But I came from two parents who have borderline OCD when it comes to cleanliness, tidiness, and an orderly life. Orderly is super, really, if you don’t want to actually do anything.

When I homeschooled my four children, each of them had crates to put their books and supplies into at the end of each day. Did they really make it there? Not most days.

Did my father and mother have things to say about my messy house? Sadly, yes. The pains I have around my creative messes are not healthy. Mom enjoys the food I make. But somewhere in there, there is always a comment about how I make such messes in the kitchen.

I’m prepped now. It doesn’t hurt me now, because I know she is just her. But I deserve to be loved and accepted for everything I am.

There is more, but you get the point. Even people who love us, hurt us. But the ball is in our court to make the first move, so often. If we don’t, we miss out. And in the end, they miss out, too.

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Do we want to be yet another person, on our deathbed, wishing we had repaired our relationship with our parents, our siblings, or our children? I know I don’t.

It’s the most courageous thing we can do. And the most risky thing we can do. It requires putting our hearts out there, yet again, to be skewered by people who “should” know how to love us better.

Each of us have people in our lives who don’t love us well. I know that once I accepted that I loved others imperfectly, it was easier for me to give grace to those who loved me imperfectly. I can now appreciate what I do get, instead of feeling entitled to more.

Do I hope for more? Yes, I think I do. Because my heart knows that the “remedy for me was to love”. This phrase is one from one of Rabia’s poems.

It might be the hardest thing we ever do. But, there is nothing that matters more.

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This post was previously published on medium.com.

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