On why my cringeworthy moments are worth it. This post is a personal reflection on why – all of a sudden – I am very, very grateful for them.
I have anxiety issues. These are long-stemmed little roses of my life that lead me to plan and schedule things to the letter, always edge on being twenty minutes early for everything (because if I was late, the world will fall down, apparently) and a variety of other little interesting little parts of me that make me who I am.
I am, however, not ashamed of them. People who know me and who are on my team in life know that I will check details, check again, confirm and follow up eighteen times, especially if I have to depend on them to do something (this is why I make spreadsheets of everything – Hat Tip to B :P) . This makes me sometimes annoying (Sheena can tell you this…), but also good to work with. You generally know where you stand with me, and where I’m at with something. It has, unfortunately, though, led me to lose relationships or be forced into letting go of things I did not want to let go of, because I could not lean on them, with certainty. That’s not my point here.
The thing is – as a child, I had them then too. And, very often, they made me afraid to talk. I would be incredibly afraid to ask a question in the classroom and having to do a presentation? I’d usually cry. I am a little better now that I’m 33 and have been made to do it more and more professionally. I’m not great at it but, I can do it.
My anxiety, and you’ll note I called them roses above, not thorns – there’s a reason for that – has created for me a history of potentially spirit crushing moments and a huge set of childhood events that – at the time – made me want the world to open up, swallow me whole, spit me back out again, and then throw me into the ocean. But it didn’t. So, I’ve learnt to live with the cringeworthy moments and – because I’m a parent – I get to use them as stories now.
My daughter is nervous this evening. She starts a new grade tomorrow, and is no longer a small child but a developing, interested-eyes-with-wonder person in her own right. It scares her a little because she feels that she has let go of the securities she attached to being “small” and has become aware that the world judges you. I really, really hate that. She is a sensitive soul, who is far more affected by little incidents than I’ll ever let on. She’s getting better at it though – far better than I ever was. Some of the stuff that absolutely broke my heart in 1988 still affects me to this day. She is no longer affected by something that happened last week. She is building a resilience I do not feel I had growing up. She has a self-confidence that I do not know at all. She is proud of her achievements, and does not try to hide them or blush past them, like I did and still do.
How is she doing this? Because I tell her my stories.
When she is scared about an event, or something coming up, I ask her: “what’s the worst thing that could happen?”
So she’ll tell me and – without a doubt – I can refute her worry by telling her about something I went through as a child. Tonight, I told her of my most embarrassing moments (there were many!) in primary school. Including the time I peed my pants in the classroom. Five times. Across three different years. And in two different schools. Surrounded, each time, by a variety of kids who would laugh at me.
She stared at me, surprised. You see, when you’re a kid, you think your parents are superheroes. They can do no wrong, they’ve never been embarrassed, they’ve never been sad and they have no idea what you’re feeling. I like to think that moments like these remind her that I am just human. They enable me to remind her that I made it out okay, in spite of – and because of – my litany of cringeworthy moments.
As we talked it through and she giggled at the thought of me, her mama, the superhero, peeing my pants, I realised.
Somewhere in my heart the little seven year old girl who wanted to die at what happened in the classroom, who wondered so confusingly why this was happening to her, and why couldn’t she just talk like the other kids? That girl lifted her head up and smiled the biggest smile her face could. Somewhere, inside my battered but full heart, that little girl knows that moment had a purpose.
I’ve never been grateful for my litany of cringe before. All of a sudden, I am.