When the Hardest Thing is Showing Up.
The courage to arrive in a world that's not always welcoming.
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My six-year-old granddaughter knows how to make an entrance.
On her birthday, her parents asked us to drive her to a local indoor playground for her party while they transported decorations and supplies. When we arrived to pick her up, she appeared at the top of the stairs, sporting a new dress and a tiara that said, “Birthday Girl.” She paused, raised her hands in the air, threw her head back and shouted,
“IT’S MY BIRTHDAY AND I AM MAGNIFICENT!”
The effect was enhanced given she was missing her two front teeth.
I had two reactions. The first was delight. “YES, you are magnificent!” I thought.
The second was a little heartbreak. A lump formed in my throat and my eyes stung as I thought, how much longer before the world tells you a different story? How long before the world tells you, you are lacking, that you are not enough?
I said a quick prayer. “Dear God, please never let her forget that she is magnificent.”
At this point in her young life, Maddie arrives assuming she’s loveable and loved. She shows up exuberant, eager to greet the world. That’s, in part because she’s a very fortunate little girl. She has parents who love and care for her, an older brother who finds her annoying but loves her anyway, and grandparents, who adore her and hang on her every word.
But soon, she will learn the hard lesson that the world is not always welcoming. She will receive messages from her peers, from strangers on social media and other places that she is somehow deficient or unworthy. That she is not enough.
As her grandmother, my first instinct is to shield her. I want to pack her into a warm and cozy bubble and never let the world anywhere near her. But my job is not to protect her from the world. My job, along with her parents’, is to prepare her for it.
To support her to become strong and resilient. To encourage her to take her place in a world that is sometimes unfriendly and unsafe. To show her that she is not the center of the universe, but a unique and precious part of it. To help her know at the core of her being, she is worthy and she is loved.
I’ve learned that this doesn’t happen by simply telling her it is so. The hardest part of the job, as parent or grandparent, is showing her what that looks like.
Like any grandmother, I know my time with my grandkids is short. I want them to remember me in a way that is actually helpful to them. I want them to be able to ask themselves when they are in a tough spot, “What would Mémé do?” And I want something useful to come from that question.
If I could point to one thing I need to practice for my grandchildren’s sake, it is showing up. Especially when the world doesn’t feel safe or welcoming.
I’m not a boat rocker. I lean a little too far toward maintaining harmony. Which means I don’t always show up for difficult or essential conversations.
I'm a little too attached to being loved and respected. And so, I hesitate to speak my mind when it might be important to do so.
I want to feel safe, so I don’t always show up when my voice might make waves or create conflict.
Sometimes, despite my best intentions, I fail to show up for others when they need me to do so.
Sometimes, I forget to show up for myself, to take responsibility for my physical and emotional well-being. I forget that my worth is not defined by my reputation or by how many friends, likes, or comments I’ve collected.
A sustainable sense of self worth comes from a deeper place, a place beyond the burden of whatever story the world makes up about me. Or whatever story I make up about myself.
I am working on this because (to use a saying normally applied to dogs) I want to be the person my grandchildren believe I am.
This imperative to keep showing up; this rite of arrival demands that we put aside our fear. We arrive because there is something more important to attend to than our comfort or our safety.
Because if we don’t show up, who will know we are magnificent?
I dedicated this poem to my granddaughter, the Magnificent Maddison.