BIG

When a small moment in parenting became a big one

Last month, my four-year-old daughter experienced what felt like an all-caps BIG life moment: her first ballet recital. The moment felt BIG because performing ballet in front of an audience has been one of her dreams since she learned of the sophisticated and striking dance.

For the entirety of the week leading up to the performance, she repeatedly expressed that she was afraid. And when I questioned her about her fear, her response was always, “I’m afraid of the audience.”

At first, my gut-instinct, or rather my “learned” instinct from my upbringing, was to tell her that she is “the best, most beautiful ballerina in the whole world” or that she’s “going to be awesome” or that she “doesn’t need to be afraid.”

And then, I stopped myself. 

I closed my eyes and remembered what it was like to be a child and what it felt like to hear those words from my own parents. The auto-responses had only made me feel worse, not better. They were empty and unfounded because oftentimes when I was preparing for that BIG moment, it was BIG because I’d never done the thing before. Moreover, I desperately wanted to do it, and I wanted to do it perfectly.

For several days, I deliberated: What was the correct response to my daughter’s fear? I laid in bed, tossing and turning, unable to fall asleep, and spiraling. I wrestled with and doubted my own ability to make the right choice as a parent, and I feared that I wouldn’t be able to make the right one because my only experience with parenting was that of how my parents parented me, or rather the lack thereof, since I mostly parented myself. 

I felt the pressure big-time because I knew this was a high-stakes moment for her: a moment unlike any other moment before now because she genuinely cared about something. And on the other side, it was a high-stakes moment for me, too: a moment unlike any other moment before now because I didn’t have the option of holding her hand and physically walking her through that scary unknown. 

Anxiety began to take the wheel, and as I fought to reclaim the driver’s seat, I told myself (in a focused and competitive tone) that I had to figure out a better response to my daughter’s fear, for it is in this series of small, incremental moments of a child’s life that make up big, long-lasting impressions. And though I knew deep down that whatever choice I made wouldn’t absolutely destroy her or her life trajectory, I wanted to—or rather I needed to—perform, too. It’s just in my nature. It always has been.

The next evening, using a team approach, my husband and I decided to validate her feelings and tell her that her feelings were normal. My husband gave an example of how he gives presentations for work to a “room” full of people via video calls and that he, too, gets nervous and scared when he has to do that. Then, I shared my own experience of recently recording a teacher development course and how I, too, was nervous and scared to do something new, but I did because I really wanted to and I was confident in my ability to perform. 

We reminded her of all of her hard work since January: how she spent four months practicing ballet positions and techniques, how she improved after every practice, and how she was indeed ready because of all of her massive effort and acquired skill. 

I reminded her that she was the definition of an “elegant” dancer, the adjective that Marilyn Singer uses to describe professional ballerinas and eventually Tallulah after her first recital. (Note: The Tallulah series is a bedtime favorite of our daughter’s and the reason she even aspired to become a ballerina in the first place. It’s a great read for any budding ballerina.) And finally, I told her that I was proud of her commitment to learn something new and that she should be, too, and it’s okay to want to showcase all that hard work and to also enjoy it.

After a few more bedtime stories, a lullaby, and a goodnight kiss, doubt began to creep in once again. 

I questioned whether my words were enough to ease her worries because how could a mother (who was parentified) know what to really do in what felt like a pivotal moment in her child’s life? 

I feared that she would allow her emotions to get to her and would refuse to go up on stage at the time of her performance. I feared that she would hide her “magic,” the thing that sets her apart from everyone else—the one thing that is unique, beautiful, and sacred. I feared that she would let herself down, and in turn, I would let myself down.

The moment felt BIG because it was BIG.

After I tucked my two daughters into bed and left their bedroom, I was bombarded by a fury of emotions as I closed the door: anger, resentment, sadness, and grief. 

I was furious about my childhood. I resented my parents for their behaviors and choices. I was sad for little Katrina who took on so much at such a young age. And, I grieved the childhood that I ached for but never received. 

I winced as the memories began to invade my periphery, coming at me like the one-two punch of a boxer.

I remembered being told as a preteen to wear some makeup and to fix my hair: “Don’t you want to look like a girl? You’re such a tomboy—such a Plain Jane.”

I remembered being my mom’s sole comforter after a night of fighting and yelling between my parents: “Why do you think he treats me this way? Do you think I deserve it? Do you think I’m a bad mother?”

I remembered being directed to answer phone calls from bill collectors and coached by my mom on what to say and how to say it: “Don’t tell them we’re home, and speak ‘right.’”

I remembered being given the task to assist in managing our household and parenting my siblings on a daily basis.  I’d cook and clean. I would assist my three sisters and brother with their homework. I’d bathe them, get them ready for bed, and even put them to sleep most nights. And if I wanted to do something outside of the home like socialize with my peers, I was met with the question: “Isn’t your family more important? Don’t you love us?”

And as I sauntered down memory lane, in that hazy and swirling and terrifying daydream, I came back to Earth, back in our bedroom, in our bed, and discovered that I had buried myself under our white down comforter. I felt my face; it was wet from my tears. I hadn’t felt the sad water stream down my round cheeks; I was too caught up in the blind-siding bout.

To recognize and alleviate my pain, I gave myself a firm hug and performed a breathing exercise that I had learned from somatic therapy: inhaling for three seconds, holding my breath for three seconds, and exhaling for three seconds. 

After finding a calmer state, I began to get curious (as directed by my therapist after a particularly triggering event). I began to scrutinize the why behind these strong feelings that were so vehemently unleashed. I began to ponder what advice or care little Katrina would have wanted or needed but didn’t receive as a child. I began to focus on how younger “me” felt in times of exceptional need and care, and the answer, though fuzzy, began to slowly come into focus, albeit with apprehension.

Springtime in Appalachia

***

Somehow, somewhere, along the way, I adopted a low self-efficacy, which refers to “an individual's belief in his or her capacity to execute behaviors necessary to produce specific performance attainments” (Bandura, 1977, 1986, 1997).

As a child, if I felt brave enough to share or be vulnerable with my parents (primarily with my mother), I was often met with “Oh, honey, you’ll be fine” or “But you’re so smart, sweetie” or my favorite piece of unhelpful advice: “You’ve got nothing to worry about.” 

For an anxious and depressed child, I had everything to worry about.

Indeed, achieving A-B honor roll was proof that I was “smart” to my parents and to society, but in my mind, making good grades was not a true sign of intelligence but rather an acknowledgment that I could read, write, and memorize facts. 

True genius, to me, was the ability to create and influence another human or humans, to shift traditional thought patterns, and to stir human emotion. 

My idols were authors, musicians, dancers, actors, inventors, scientists, and policy-makers. 

My inner critic would often taunt: “Keep dreaming, darlin’. You can’t be any of those people because you aren’t ACTUALLY smart.”

As I reminisced, I realized that my magic had been destroyed, buried, shut in my youth. And since that time, my magic—the thing that made me “me” was another item on my list of “Things to Grieve'' as an adult. However, miraculously, in this instance, it was something that I could revive. It was possible to get reacquainted and to know my magic again. 

And though years of living through a traumatic childhood had made me lose that connection with my own creativity, with my own spark, all was not lost. I began to remember that unique, beautiful, and sacred gift that lived within me—that lives within us all— if we only just learn to speak to it, to listen to it, and to do what it desires.

***

Sunday, the day of my daughter’s ballet recital, finally came, and as I was busily buzzing around the house, getting my family all done up in fancy clothes, preparing water bottles and road snacks, and putting my daughter’s long, dirty blond hair up in a ballerina bun, I decided that it was the perfect time to give her the response that I had agonized over for days—the response that I now had confidence in. 

I decided to tell her about her magic. 

I decided to tell her that when she dances, she exudes magic, like one of the fairies from her favorite bedtime stories. I decided to tell her about how her magic warms the hearts of all who witness her performance. I decided to tell her that her magic sends love in all directions, all across the universe. I decided to tell her that it’s okay to be afraid and that it’s okay to not be. It’s okay to share the magic that lives within her, and it’s okay to have pride in that special, only-from-her magic.

I did not tell her that her magic also had healing powers, and that it was her magic that reminded me of my own. I did not tell her (but will someday) that she helped hold the pen in writing my story of healing from trauma and grief.

***

And, as we nervously sat in the theater waiting for our beautiful ballerina to be called onto the stage, I reminded her once more about her magic and her family’s love. Then, I hurriedly took out red lipstick from my purse and drew a heart on the top of her right hand and told her that if she needed a reminder during the performance, all she needed to do was look down at this sign and she would remember everything I had said. She would remember her magic and the love of her family.

She beamed and nodded with reassurance. My husband, my other daughter, and I gave her one final family hug, and as we embraced, the director called her class up. Ever-so-discreetly, I wiped a single tear from my right cheek, and then I inhaled and exhaled. 

I beamed, too, as I watched my brave girl spring from my lap and gleefully scamper to the stage. Once her teacher helped place all the tiny dancers in position, the classical music began to fill the big room, and our sweet girl danced with such conviction, grace, and care. 

She was magic personified.

I was so, so proud of her. (I still am.) And, I was so, so proud of myself, too. I was proud of myself for getting curious, for listening, for speaking, and for doing the hard work as a parentified parent and simply as a human being. 

And although this moment may not be a substantial moment that she recalls later in her adult life, it was one for me because it was the moment when I learned to let go of my little girl’s hand and to not only trust her but to trust myself, and that is all-caps BIG.

Everything.

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