Ode to a Pen

or,

On Being Fully Loved

or,

This is Not About a Pen

Oh, little pen. You were a gift from Julie.  I like the way you write so precisely.  I like the way you feel fancy.  Your mint green exterior - a standout in a sea of blacks and blues. 

Oh, little pen.  You stay beside me every day and you don’t let me down.  If you could speak, what would you say?:

“Stop using me!”

Or maybe: “Thank you for letting me fulfill my destiny.”

When you feel underappreciated: "Hey, I have needs, too!"

On some days: “Julie brought me all the way from Japan and she loves you!”

Oh, little pen.  I'm a weirdo for writing to you, but everything I'm saying is true.  And - maybe I love you so much mostly because you remind me daily that people love me, too. 

I'm an LMFT - Of Course I Have Dad Issues

He's the source of feeling like the most loved and special person in the world.  He's also the person from whom I got a lot of my informal training in this field: Reading moods, feeling the unspoken in the atmosphere, managing others' vulnerabilities and cruelties, knowing when to fawn versus fight, a resonance with others' pain, always rooting for the underdog, and a desire to heal for others what can't be healed in my family.

In therapy I live for what I'll call droplet moments: Can I give these people a droplet of connection, remind each other of their bonds and love, even if just for this one moment?  Can I get a tough and traumatized parent to say to their kid, "I love you and I'm so proud of you and I am sorry for how I have hurt you"?  Can I get a teen to let down their guard just enough to let their parent know, "Even as I'm kicking away from you, I still need you"?  If I can help them pull back the curtain of their psyches to give them this one beautiful moment, they'll remember it for a lifetime.  They'll reference that moment over and over and over again when days are hard, because the experience of being loved gets stored in our bodies in ways we don't fully realize.

I'm giving my clients the healing my dad and I never got.  Those droplets in therapy are when I feel like singularly the most powerful version of me, and simultaneously connected to our collective human experience of love, hurt, and yearning.

My dad does not say I love you.  He shows his love through criticism.  Here's a life lesson he's taught me since I was nine and started getting praise from school teachers: Never get too comfortable or big-headed in what you're doing.  Never brag.  Never think, for one moment, that you're good enough - because there is always, always someone out there in the world who is or does this better than you.  If you ever hold up favorably against others, it's only because you're comparing yourself to the ants, and why would you even think they're worthy of comparison?

But he would also wake me up gently in the mornings for school, sit by my bed as I gradually stirred because he wanted me to have a loving start to my day.  I would open my eyes and his face, full of tender adoration, would be the first thing that I would see.

We did mazes on airplane rides together.  Can the reindeer get through the maze to find Santa?  He said, But look! - the reindeer can jump OVER the wall to get to Santa in the middle.  You don't need to restrict yourself to these lines.  So I learned that if I have my will, there is a way.

He has never said it, but I suspect that he takes a certain stealthy delight in the fact that I do what I want and don't take his sh*t.  I can see it in the way he chuckles at my daughter's antics.  I imagine he must see a piece of me in there.

At 41, I'm still trying to impress him.  My writing has been something he's taken pride in.  He's long had a dream that one day I would publish a book, little stories about how this immigrant family made it in America.  Doesn't that dream make so much sense?  Picture it: Him, an immigrant with lesser-than status in part due to English language deficiencies, knowing that his daughter published a full-*ss book in English.  A book - about us!  I can see how in his eyes, there wouldn't be a more fitting way of showing the world we made it.

I don't show him my writing, especially not in this format.  There would be too much for him to criticize and pick at.  He thinks social media is dumb and for the sheep.  He thinks my grammar is incorrect.  Maybe this would all be too revealing and he'd want to set the record straight.  He still thinks he knows what's best for me and that I'm a half-step away from failure if I don't follow his guidance.  He'd think this is soap opera slop that I've drummed up for pity or attention.

I don't want his criticism to shrivel me up, to make me fearful of putting my words out in the world.  But even if he doesn't read all this, I know that in some way I'm still writing for him, continuing to stretch my fingers for a rush of pride and affection that I know will never come.

And what about that book?  Who knows.  Over the years, his dream has become mine.  But, would it even matter if I did?  In truth, he'd probably find some other reason why it still wasn't good enough.

But maybe in another world, one in which we were both less weighed down by the weight of our intergenerational inheritances, where he felt connected and valued, where life was gentle enough that he didn't have to toughen me up - maybe there he would say, "You did so good and I am so proud of you."  And in that world, I would take it in and breathe a sigh of relief, knowing that finally, it was good enough.

Client, Sometimes I AM You

Life feels really hard lately.  No matter what I do, I just can't get it right.  "Too stubborn, too rigid, too chicken" - this feels like me and this takes up real estate in my mind.  Am I messing up my kids forever?  Why can't I do it like other people?  Why can't I BE like other people?  Wishing I could be more carefree, spontaneous, novelty-seeking, and dammit, FUN.  Am I asking too much of myself to be a little more fun?  (Yes, yes, that IS asking too much of myself.)

Alas, I am not wired that way.  Inheritances received from my parents include stubbornness, a strong will, a serious disposition (thank you, Dad), and a nervous system that feels safe in routine.  My family, we are not of the carefree ilk.  Give us showers and bedtimes at 6pm, no leaving the house after dark, 9+ hours of sleep, the same soft pillows on which to rest our heads.  Wait, am I routine, or am I just tired?

Motherhood has sucked the few natural dregs of spontaneity and carefreeness from my marrow.  I'm vigilant to everything my kids are doing: Are they on their screens too much?  (Yes, they are.)  Have they eaten a real, whole, unprocessed bite of food today?  (No, they haven't.)  Are they making a mess (literal and metaphorical) that I'll have to clean up later?  (Does a bear shit in the woods?)  Why can't my kids just follow the rules and listen?  (Because neither of their parents do.)  Dammit, why do they have so many needs and why are they always asking for something?!

Sometimes I feel like a loser because in my spare moments, if I'm not reading, cleaning the house, or working out, I'm wringing my hands wondering why I lack other fun hobbies to fill my time.  I wonder if there's something wrong with me, if it's because I'm devoid of curiosity or am just lazy.  But then I think, Where is the space and time to do that?

Other times I feel the imagined gaze of others judging me, asking, "Does a good mom get dressed up, go out with friends?  She's a bad mom."

It's an old story, but moms really can't win.  Dissatisfaction abounds.

This is not one of those pieces that I'll tie up neatly with a bow.  I end this still feeling tired, unsure of myself, with a physical tightness in my shoulders.  Feelings don't have clear endings.  So I take all this and humbly mix it in with the rest of this soup that I call life, until my feelings wisp and change again.

Love Letter to My Sister

Love letter to my sister, eldest daughter in an immigrant family: She used to create worlds for me, making stuffed animals come to life for me and me alone. A friend recently sent a video of her making a stuffed bunny talk to her toddler daughter - the delight in her daughter's body brought up the somatic sensation of feeling LOVED in mine. Trauma is stored in the body - and - so is love. I miss someone making a world come to life just for me.

A lot of my somatic memories of love are linked to my sister, seven years older than me. She was the one who played with me while my parents were making a survival for our family. By now have I worn this story to the ground?: They spoke poor English and wore foreign faces in America. They were the cab drivers, hotel maids, busboys - relegated to the backbone of what America considers low-value, low-paying jobs. Made meals of canned sardines, saved pennies for diapers, is this immigrant story familiar to you yet?

While they were gone, my sister was the one who: Played pretend with me, changed my diapers, forged signatures on school forms, packed my lunches, disciplined me, took me to get my first library card that sparked a life-long love affair with words, bought me toys, taught me how to swim, buffered me from my parents when they didn't understand.

As an adult, she: Gave me pocket money in college; got me my first cell phone and put me on her plan; met all my boyfriends; bought me grown-up clothes when I was looking for jobs; planned engagement, bridal, and baby showers; interviewed and coordinated nanny shares for my babies so I could return to work; took and takes care of my kids like her own - all while working her own jobs and eventually building her own family.

She, a kid herself, was charged with keeping me safe. I think she lost some of her childhood for me. I was more free to BE [weird and wonderful me] because of what she gave up.

The other night, I put my son to bed with the help of a soft stuffy and a squeaky little voice. He was absolutely delighted. How incredible to be a little kid and have someone want to make worlds for you. I hope he carries that love with him always.

Not All is Wasted

Last week my friend lovingly helped me clean out my closet. I noticed a pang of... Something within myself. Unease? Sadness? Panic? I have a hard time with change and getting rid of things.

My parents grew up poor in Thailand, then immigrated to the U.S., where they were considered even more poor. My dad recounts how he used to drive taxis and would count every penny of his fare until he could afford to buy the box of diapers his baby needed. There's a Thai expression my mom often uses that I believe translates loosely to, "What a sadness to waste that!" The idea is: That thing is still perfectly usable, how could you get rid of it?! What waste! And: What if you need this in the future? This applies to plastic food containers, food, days-old coffee, hangers that aren't aesthetically pleasing but still sturdy and intact.

A mindset of scarcity and fear is hardwired in me. But it doesn't make sense for me to live this way anymore. I don't need to carry the burdens and beliefs of my ancestors. I don't need to live in fear that the other shoe could drop and one day I could end up impoverished and need these T-shirts I haven't worn in years or spoons that make our kitchen drawers stick or prelit Christmas trees where 75% of the lights don't light up.

I asked the part of me who was feeling scared what she was so scared of. She thought that by throwing away these old hangers, I was throwing away my parents and the painstaking efforts they put in to raise me and ensure I was better off than them. I told her that we are much more financially stable than we have ever been in our lives. I showed her that these objects are not the same as people and our love for each other. I showed her that it doesn't even make sense to equate these dusty, unused objects to values or people who are important to me. I reminded her that we actually WANT things clean and decluttered. She still felt uneasy, but trusted me that this was what was best.

I sorted through the hangers and separated out the wire ones. I brought them to my local drycleaners to be recycled - most drycleaners in my area are owned by Korean immigrants of my parents' generation, who I imagine share a similar sensibility as it comes to savings and reuse. It was a win for all: I cleaned things out, released some emotional and physical burdens, and she saved some dollars on having to buy new hangers. 

I’m not obligated to keep things that no longer work.

Motherhood isn't for the faint of heart

Sometimes I feel like being a mom is this ooze that threatens to suffocate and slime me, until any sense of "me-ness" has been sucked away and replaced by Motherhood. Case in point: The daily battle to get the kids ready and out the door for school on time versus starting work on time. There are some days I feel so desperate, clinging with the tips of my fingernails onto this calling that I love and that pays me: "Can't I just keep this piece of myself? Please? Can't I just do this thing I love without fear of it getting sucked into the vortex of others' needs?"

I try to keep Me, but it's an effort. If I don't keep a watchful eye, inertia sucks me in and I become one with the ooze.

Out of everything that changed when I had kids, I think the biggest shocker was the realization that my accrued vacation and sick time no longer belonged to me. What do you mean, I'm either working at a paid job or working the unpaid duty of being a mom? I'm supposed to use my time off to bring them to the doctor, stay at home with them when they're sick, or go on a trip where I'm taking care of someone else, but just in a different location?

Do I ever get to rest? Will I ever get to rest again?

The answer is: No, not really, and noppity nope nope nope.

Being a mom is full of contradictions. When they're with you, they exhaust you. When they're away, you miss them and you worry about them, down to your bones. Being a mom transcends the human experience but is also so grimy, full of poo, squabbling, and the grind of the same thing Over and Over. It's the best thing that you've ever done but also... the worst thing you've ever done??? You see yourself at your best and you see yourself: Teeth bared, claws out, a monster that everyone runs away from.

The constant is that you're tired tired tired.

But then you have these moments: You really stop and listen to their little voices. You stare at their faces. You wonder how anything could be so perfectly shaped and proportioned. You see the greedy way they collect rocks and shells, little treasures stuffed into jacket pockets with grimy hands. You hear the way they giggle when you make their stuffies talk to them. Wow! - You get to create a whole world, just for them! You feel the safety and warmth of a body nestled into yours. Imprinted in your memories is the way that they say “ham-buh-guh” instead of “hamburger.” You feel the wonder of being the name they call when they get hurt, and that you get to be the one to fix it for them.

This life, being their mom: It’s not for the faint of heart. I’ll take it every single time.

Being a Parent is Hard and You Deserve a Pat on the Back

Without fail, this has been the scene in my house the past three days at 7am: Me, bleary-eyed, getting ready for work. Kid #2 announces he wants to brush his teeth. Kid #1 immediately decides she also needs to brush her teeth at the exact same time that Kid #2 is brushing. They are both short. The sink is tall. There is one stool between the two of them. Reader, what is the end result of this equation? Did you say, “Get another stool so that they can each use one!” If you did, that tells me you have never spent an extended period of time with two un-self-regulated, brain-still-in-the-works human beings.

This is the end result: Throwing ‘bows, screaming, intensely tortured sobbing. A two-person mosh pit on the stool, with all the aggression, but none of the music and none of the fun. Uncaffeinated me brushing my teeth with one hand, the other hand palming the top of Kid #1’s head like a basketball to hold her off beating the [beep] out of Kid #2. Kid #1 is about double the size of Kid #2, and she uses that to her advantage if left unbidden. The sound in my house is that of 100 mourners keening and wailing at a funeral. Or of two people having their fingernails slowly being pulled off. Maybe three, if you include me.

Every fiber, bone, cell in my being wanted to rage, yell, get in their faces and scare them into being quiet. Because that would get the chaos to stop. When you grow up in a household where control, force, and fear were used to get things done, your brain and body are wired for it.

But I know the consequences of being scared into compliance. A part of you begins to believe you’re bad. That no matter what you do or how you grow, you aren’t worthy of love, gentleness, and kindness. My biggest parenting fear is that one day, my kids will carry this same belief, and it will be because of me.

There are many times I’ve yelled and gotten scary. In the moment, it feels like relief and release, but those feelings never longer than a minute. The feeling that ends up haunting you is guilt. Fear. So, so much shame. “Am I repeating the same mistakes on them that were made on me?” Then it replays, over and over in your mind: That scene where you were the person they wouldn’t go to when they were crying - because you were the one that made them cry. And this feeds right into the part of you that thinks you’re bad/failing/inadequate/terrified/[fill in your blank].

You didn’t think I would leave you here on such a grim note, though, did you? No, never! There is so much hope in the world for those who want to heal.

This morning, I didn’t rage, yell, or get scary. I picked Kid #1 up and told her, “I won’t let you hurt Kid #2. I know you’re having a hard time not hurting Kid #2 and I won’t let you. If you can’t control yourself, I will bring you to your room.” I did and said all this fairly calmly, given that I’d woken up just 10 minutes earlier. I am not wired to respond this way and it took every ounce of will I had to do it. It felt exhausting in the moment, like I was holding desperately onto a rope that was being pulled just out of my grasp. In the end though, I held onto Kid #1, husband took Kid #2 out of the bathroom, and the entire house exhaled a sigh of relief.

In the quiet that followed, I thought, “I need someone to tell me I did a good job just now.” Being a parent means that you are constantly thinking of the things you’re doing wrong and the ways you’re screwing it all up. The times that you’re doing it right tend to get downplayed or go unnoticed.

But here’s why it’s important to notice: I want to make sure I don’t pass this belief of being bad on to my kids. This starts with me knowing that I’m trying my best and recognizing the times I get it right. So, I gave myself a pat on the back for getting it right this time. I will always work on getting it right and being good enough for them. It will never be enough and I will always try. This act is my lifelong love letter to them.

Today, no matter if you’re having a good or bad day, pat yourself on the back. Parenting is hard and you deserve a pat on the back. Recognize yourself for your wins - they are important and need to be noticed. Hug yourself when you are struggling - you are worthy of love, kindness, and gentleness on those days, too.

The Ways We Pinch Our Noses

As with many parents in this weird period of time we call COVID life, I found my daughter in need of a COVID test. She’d come home from school the previous night, threw some tantrums, fell asleep on the couch, and didn’t wake until the next day. She hit a fever of 102F, complained of tummy pain, and missed all her nightly cartoons - very unlike her.

She’d previously had a COVID test done before, so she knew what was coming: Cotton swab waaaay up the nose and some painful burning up where no cotton swabs (or other objects) should ever go. As the lab tech came out of the building and began working his way down the line of cars, she began to flail in her car seat and wail.

“Mommy, I’m scaaaared! I don’t wanna do it! I’m so scared! I don’t wanna, I don’t wanna, I won’t do it!”

Of course I lied to her and told her it would be just fine, and then I lied through my actions and acted calm. And this part, the validation of her feelings, not a lie: “Sophie, I know you don’t want to, I know you’re scared. Mommy doesn’t like to do it either. But sometimes we have to do things that we don’t like because it keeps other people safe.”

Aaand… none of it helped. Because of course it’s one thing to soothe and validate feelings in a therapy session, and another thing entirely when the “client” in question is your terrified and strong-willed 5-year-old daughter, who is apparently resistant to what other (sane, wise, incredible) people pay money for.

We next moved to bribery and screen time. I turned on the Amazon app, typed in “stuffed animals” in the search bar, gave her my phone, and told her I would buy her ANY toy she wanted after the test. Now, this did the trick. Are you taking notes? This is therapist gold right here!

As the line of cars pulled up and our turn arrived, the flailing and wailing intensified, and this time she mounted a new defense: She began to firmly pinch her nose with her very tiny, weak fingers that any person with an ounce of strength could open in a millisecond. Um, did she realize how ridiculous this was?!

I looked back at her and felt the strongest mixture of laughter (a little uncontainable) and sadness for her fear. And then it dawned on me - isn’t she just as absurd as the rest of us? The pinching, the flailing, the wailing - these were all attempts at controlling an outcome over which she effectively had no control.

How often have you overanalyzed, regurgitated, rehashed something over and over again, as if by doing it, you can actually change the outcome? I wish I hadn’t said that awkward thing - then people wouldn’t think I’m so dumb. Maybe if I phrase this in just the right way, h/she won’t leave me. If I can plan out everything to the minute, I’ll be less stressed! If I choose the thing that other people want me to choose, then they’ll love me. If I do enough research and pick just the right [dress, house, car, partner], then I’ll finally be happy.

In truth, none of it matters, because no matter where you go - there you are.

What actually does help?: Connection (with people who get it and care), perspective (that all good/bad/painful/joyful/transcendent/etc. experiences and feelings have a shelf life and expiration date), and knowledge of self (am I upset just because of the current situation or is this tied to something deeper in my life?).

In the end, Sophie’s little fingers were pried off her nose. By me. She put up a good fight, but ultimately, that swab was going to do its thing regardless. Afterwards, she bawled, “Mommy, I’m saaaaadd!!!!”

I know, sweetie, I know.

As we drove away, her sobs turned into sniffles, then thoughts about what toy she should get, then dwindled lazily into our usual conversation.

And, as it turns out, I didn’t lie to her after all - things actually and truly did turn out just fine.

How are you pinching your nose?

Bamboo

We have this swath of bamboo in my backyard that is beautiful. It is tall, green, and grand. Looking up at it when the sun hits it right makes you feel small in just the right way.

We hacked down some of the bamboo this summer because 1) around this area, it is considered an invasive, uncontrollable weed, and 2) we wanted to grow some nice-on-the-eyes grass, something a bit more palatable in our piece of suburbia.

We declared success as we laid down sod, the days went by, and nary a sign of bamboo threatened the peace. Phew.

Until. There it was - a tender and strong shoot of bamboo, proudly sprouting right through the damn grass. What the?! I spotted more of them. I tried pulling them out. No dice. Husband tried next. No luck there, either. In the end, he cut them down using the machete we found in our yard when we first moved in.

I continued to check on it in the weeks after, hoping that our efforts had won out, but again, the bamboo won out. We went through this cycle a few times: Cut-grow, cut-grow, cut-grow. The chant that began playing my head each time I saw it went: That fucking bamboo!

But even as I cursed it, there was something that I grudgingly admired about it. It was a worthy opponent. The nerve of it! The persistence! How dare it keep growing?! This tenacious plant, forcing me to look at it and be awed by it, despite it being, by all accounts, a damn weed.

It’s a lot like the human spirit. We can be cut, pulled from our roots, even disappear from the naked eye - and at the end, we are just like that nervy, persistent weed. Tender, strong, grand, and ready to make a comeback, whether we realize it or not.