The Joy Between the Chaos

Adulting is hard.

I mean really hard.

Who would have thought there would be times that I would prefer to go back to childhood—or even earlier—when I carried less reality and responsibility on my back. Honestly, when I was little, I just wanted to be bigger, more in charge. I was very serious. If we played teacher, you know I was never the student. Always the teacher. I'm sure I was pretty annoying to my friends. No one wants to follow a leader all the time.

Especially one who’s not really good at teaching math. I'm sure those friends are still repairing my misleadings to this day.

I had a seemingly normal childhood. Two loving parents, a nice home tucked into a cul-de-sac in a good neighborhood in southwest Houston. I went to Ashford Elementary, went to gym, played Gretel in the school play, and got to shove the nasty witch in the oven and save the day. I had a kitten named “Bootsy.” My dad wore suits, and my mom was a teacher. My brother was the charismatic funny guy with magnetic energy everyone wanted to be around. I had lots of friends, food to eat, shelter, and love.

We even had a swimming pool in the backyard where we celebrated many birthday parties. And later, a Coca-Cola go-kart with a lawn mower engine I could drive around the neighborhood to make all the kids jealous and offer them rides.

What more could one want?

I'm not quite sure what's better—or if anything is “better”—or if any grass is greener. You see, at some point, that vision of being in charge and being the rock actually came to life. It seemed that everything fell apart at some point. The reality came to the surface. And it turned out that fairy tale experience my parents worked effortlessly to portray was all kind of a lie. I get it, though. Now, as a parent, you want to protect your children, give them a sense of security—even if it's false—for as long as you can.

That said, I’ve probably chosen to be a little too honest with my own kids at times—maybe in an effort to avoid shocking their system all at once like mine was at 13. When my parents were divorcing, my mom dropped everything—the darkest truths about my dad—all at once. I think it was a calculated move. She needed me to stay with her. She needed me to not want to go live with him. And it worked. But the cost of that truth bomb… it was heavy.

So now, with my own kids, I try to tell the truth in layers. I don’t want them to blindly take anyone’s side—especially not out of some false sense of loyalty like I felt. I want the truth to be something they can absorb over time. Not a grenade that changes everything in a single moment.

A child’s young brain can't handle the truth, especially when it's so twisted and scary, filled with mental illness, lies, theft, and grand ideas of getting rich quick, as my father presented in my adolescence. I mean, what kind of person attempts to kill himself when they have two cute little kids, age 3 and 7? I can't fathom anything being so bad that that becomes the logical choice in your mind. It is weak and cowardly—but when there is mental illness involved, who can you really blame?

I won't get into the gory details because it's not helpful to keep repeating.

The stories we were told don’t always end up being true, and when the truth comes out, it changes you forever. The realities sink into your body, heart, and mind—and it can take years to unravel and reframe them. Layers and layers of a never-ending onion.

I guess we should be careful what we ask for. I think sometimes all that prep as a kid—playing teacher—was gearing me up for my role in the family and in life. I mean, I started a school in my 20s—and now I’m a coach. It all tracks. And I love helping others find clarity and direction. But even still… I don’t always want to be the rock, or the one in charge. My hope is that I can surrender sometimes, let someone else take the reins, and practice not directing—and instead, asking for direction. My new mantra.

The tricky balance between staying in control of the things I can control in life and letting go. It’s such a fine line. Letting someone else play teacher takes a lot of effort for me. The truth is, we really don’t have control over much. People fall apart. They leave. They die. They lose their minds. I stand in the eye of the storm sometimes and wonder when I’ll get sucked up into the chaos and tossed about in the mass of debris—and potentially not land on my feet again.

But so far, I keep landing. So far, I watch the storm dissolve around me, and some sense of normalcy and joy floats in as the sky settles and the winds die down.

My fear is the repetitiveness of the nature of life. When the next storm strikes, will I have time to react if I'm not looking over my shoulder for it? Will I be prepared if I truly surrender and embrace that this is what life is—a back and forth of highs and lows?

Now I stand at 46, at an age where I really am the teacher, the mother, the daughter of someone who can no longer care for herself and can be quite cruel when I try to lead. The hardest part is learning when to let go and flow—and when to take control and lead. And to remember to always enjoy the moments in between the chaos, because those moments are what it’s all about.

Nobody said this would be easy.

For me, taking what I’ve been through and helping others find their calm after or through the storm is the best thing I can do. I assume that’s what I’ve been trained for—so I’ll follow that purpose and let it lead.