Learning to lean into the discomfort
A letter to my daughter (and to myself): how parenting parallels life's greatest challenges
This summer I’ve been taking a pause to reflect on where I’m going next with my business, to spend quality time with my family, and to give myself the permission and space to rest and recharge. Every day I wake up with gratitude for the privilege of this time.
So why is it also so damn hard to pause? First, as someone who’s worked in paying jobs since I was 14, it’s uncomfortable to take a step back from the traditional workforce. I took the same summer slowdown last year, so this time it was easier to recognize my familiar inner critic that loves to tell me that I’m not a valuable member of society if I’m not currently participating in the paid workforce—even though I know, deep in my bones, that this is not true. I have more to say about these deeply engrained toxic accomplishment-based forms of validation, but I’ll save that for a future post.
Today, I’m learning how practice self-compassion and sit with discomfort—not only my own (like learning how to decouple my sense of self-worth from my professional accomplishments), but also the discomfort I see in my highly sensitive and empathic daughter who’s 9 going on 19. At this halfway point in my summer sabbatical, it’s only fitting that I come to you with something deeply personal that I’m actively working on in this period of “rest.”
Last week I wrote my daughter a letter—I let the words pour out and I avoided my usual tendency to overthink and overedit. I’ve decided to share this with the world so I can live up to my own call for other people to do the same in their lives. It’s not fair for me to ask others to be vulnerable and transparent if I’m not willing to put myself out there the same way.
The way I strive to show up as a parent parallels the way I try to show up as a professional coach and a diversity, equity & inclusion (DEI) Strategist. I help others get comfortable with their own uncomfortable moments, which leads to meaningful change, and ultimately, more sustainable joy and fulfillment beyond the workplace.
In today’s age of immediate gratification, I see people growing increasingly impatient, anxious, and uncomfortable with any sort of discomfort. People go out of their way to avoid conflict, only to turn around and complain to others who have no power to help improve the situation. The venting sessions and quick fixes may feel good in the moment, but these approaches only prolong and deepen our discomfort and frustration.
“Inner peace and social change do not come without inner conflict.
We are both the wooden figurine on the chessboard
AND powerful players with the capacity to change the game.”
-Dr. Pooja Lakshmin, “Real Sef-Care”
With an overwhelming number of disheartening global issues that face us every day, it’s also easy to be passive in anything that doesn’t seem to affect us directly. I’ve personally felt paralyzed by the never-ending list of growing issues in our country and the world at-large; it can be hard to know where to even begin to make a positive impact, so often we do nothing at all outside our already long list of day-to-day responsibilities. I get it; it’s survival mode in today’s widespread burnout culture.
What if we could put an end to burnout culture?
What if we’ve been looking at burnout all wrong? In the book quoted above, Dr. Lakshmin offers a profound reframe: what we’ve been calling “burnout” is actually BETRAYAL:
“This distinction between burnout and betrayal is critical:
while burnout places the blame (and thus the responsibility)
on the individual and tells women they aren’t resilient enough,
BETRAYAL points directly to the broken structures around them.”
I don’t know about you, but when I rethink it this way, stress is no longer something that I need to blame myself for; discomfort isn’t something I need to run away from, but something I can lean into and use as fuel to make improvements for myself and so many others. This reframe reminds me that we’re all part of a community of other people who have been set up to fail—and together we have the power to shift the system that creates our collective burnout.
Meaningful systemic change will only happen when we hit a critical mass of people who are willing to step into the discomfort of addressing the issues. You don’t have to tackle them all. Pick ONE thing that you care about and find one small way that you can get involved, even if it’s a one-time community discussion that you show up for.
In the letter below, I share what I’m learning about how to show up for my daughter in new ways that doesn’t involve jumping into immediate “fix it mode”. In the same way, I’m also here for others who are working through their own personal and professional moments of discomfort.
I’m teaching my 9 year old that life is going to be full of stress, frustration, and hurt, but I have all the confidence in the world that she has the strength and resilience to overcome anything that comes her way. By showing her I’m not afraid of these moments, but I’m here with her for all of it, I hope she can face life’s discomforts head-on and move forward into the joyful moments. Maybe then she’ll be better equipped to continue shifting the systemic betrayals that we’ve historically blamed ourselves for all these years.
A letter to my daughter (and to myself)
July 27, 2023:
Before you were even born, before I even set eyes on you in the first ultrasound, I loved you more intensely than I’d ever felt before. Then learning what kind of physical challenges awaited you as a baby with gastroschisis, I wanted to take away any pain that I knew would come your way. During my pregnancy, I focused on the one thing I had control over—how I treated my body, and therefore you. I ate healthier than ever, I exercised in ways that made my body feel good, and I minimized stress as much as anyone can while working a very demanding full-time job.
After you were born, I went into mama bear mode standing vigilant by your isolette, once again focusing on the only things I had control over: continuing to eat healthy, pumping milk for you every 3 hours, and giving you any kind of loving touch I could through the glass case that separated us.
At that time, I didn’t have the mental or emotional capacity to process what that trauma was like. And after you were out of the hospital, I was so focused on my gratitude for your health and the sheer terror of not wanting to mess things up as a first-time mom that I just moved forward without taking time to think about how our first 5 weeks together in the NICU shaped our tight mother-daughter relationship.
For weeks on end it was you and me—and the amazing MGH doctors and staff—day in and day out. Daddy was there whenever he wasn’t working or sleeping. Our society failed all 3 of us in many ways—I had 12 fleeting weeks to bond with you because of limited maternity leave, made up entirely of my paid vacation and sick days, plus some unpaid time off. Every day I was counting down in the hopes you would be discharged home so our real 1:1 bonding time could begin before I had to head back to my full-time job. Daddy had zero paid time off because our country has still not prioritized universal paid parental leave. Yet people wonder why so many children develop attachment disorders and other mental health issues…but I digress.
The point is, for all those weeks it was me and you. We developed a bond like I’d never experienced before—once I was finally allowed to hold you, I never wanted to put you down. The nurses would comment about it, and at times I wondered if I was doing the right thing holding you every moment I could.
I am now more confident than ever that I absolutely did the right thing back then. Often the only time you seemed pain-free and peaceful was when I was holding you. Between that and continuing to both nurse you and pump additional milk, it was all I could do to help ease your pain. And I would (WILL) always have an intense, visceral craving to take away your pain. I was (semi)prepared for the trauma of watching my infant undergo major surgery but nothing could have prepared me for watching you go through morphine withdrawal for weeks on end.
At that time, my ONE most important job was to ease your pain by giving you my loving embrace.
Fast forward to today, the physical reaction I still have to your discomfort is the source of literally every conflict you and I have.
As you grow older, I know I must loosen the reins of control and I’m learning that it is no longer my job to ease your pain. The hardest job for a parent is letting go, slowly but steadily, and to realize that I actually need to LET you experience pain and discomfort in order for you to continue growing into the happy, healthy, and confident young woman you are meant to be.
During that intensely emotional time in the NICU, what got me through it were my steadfast relationships.
The love and partnership with your daddy got me through it. The unconditional love and support from our family got me through it. My friendships got me through it (both those who lived close enough to come visit us in the NICU, and those from all over the globe who showed an outpouring of love through our CaringBridge website). Relationships are THE most important thing to me because they make me feel strong in my weakest moments; they remind me of the things I should love about myself; they help me to feel worthy of love. And isn’t that the one thing that we all really want more than anything in the world?
As important as those relationships are though, my hope for you is that you know, deep down, that you are ALWAYS worthy of all the love and respect in the world. No matter what. Regardless of how other people treat you.
We are both deeply caring, empathetic people. So when you feel hurt by things your friends do, I feel that pain inside me. But when I feel that pain, it doesn’t take away your own intense emotions—and that’s the way it’s supposed to be. I am working on being better at just sitting with you through the pain without trying to rush into “fix it” mode. As hard as it is for me to watch the discomfort, I need to allow you to learn your lessons, often the hard way. I am here to listen to you without making you feel judged or criticized. THAT is now my one most important thing I can do as your mom. Your discomfort is an essential part of your learning, growing, and self-discovery process.
You’re in the chrysalis phase of life right now and that can be hard. No one thinks about what it must be like for these gorgeous, mystical creatures when they’re transforming behind the veil of its chrysalis—what does it look like when it’s part caterpillar and part butterfly? What does it feel like for them to completely transform? It must be extremely uncomfortable and painful. But it’s also necessary in order for it to emerge as a beautiful butterfly.
We all want to push away our discomfort as quickly as possible, but that only prolongs the lessons we’re intended to learn, and it makes the pain more intense.
Te amo, mariposa (I love you, butterfly)—I see you growing inside that chrysalis and I’m right here with you during your transformation, even when you can’t see me. I think I’m in my own chrysalis of sorts, finally processing so many things that I’ve never actually taken the time to reflect and grow from.
Yes, Lin-Manuel Miranda’s lyrics from the Encanto soundtrack’s “Dos Oruguitas” makes us both cry. But my tears are both the joy and pain that makes life so intensely beautiful:
Two orugitas
Cocooned and waiting
Each in their own world
Anticipating
What happens after
The rearranging?
And so afraid of change
In a world that never stops changing
So let the walls come down
The world will never stop changing…
Don’t you hold on too tight
Both of you know
It’s your time to go
To fly apart, to reunite
Wonders surround you
Just let the walls come down
Don’t look behind you
Fly till you find your way toward tomorrow.
