You Are Okay

We tend to "should all over ourselves." However, when we try to eliminate our harsh inner critic, we often make the problem worse. Thankfully, there's another way to be okay.

I have no time to do the most important thing in my life.

It’s my daughter’s first day of high school. She’s rocking some bubble braids and wearing some makeup sparingly. When I look at her, I can still see her childhood, but just barely. It’s a half-day, and there’s nothing I want more than to meet her for lunch at a cafe across the street from the high school. However, my calendar is full and my inbox is overflowing.

Each email awaiting my response is a perfectly wonderful request:

• A colleague wants me to participate in his affiliate program, and I really should.

• A business associate wants to schedule a time to network, and I really should.

• An acquaintance wants to talk about recording a podcast episode, and I really should.

The problem, of course, isn’t the people or the requests—the problem is the should-ness of them.

“We should all over ourselves.”

I first heard that clever pun twenty years ago from a supervisor during my predoctoral residency at a veterans’ hospital. As my daughter walks out the door for school, I remember that phrase, and I tell her I’ll meet her for lunch. Then I make a beeline for my computer and say no to everyone in my inbox.

That accomplished, I decide I should write a post about shedding our shoulds. (I barely notice the irony of the thought.) This is what I write:

Should is shame’s favorite word. The words “bad” and “broken” are too easily detected. Should hides in plain sight, though. It’s shame’s way of telling you that you are unworthy until you do something worthwhile, unloveable until you do something that is loved.

Well, if you’ll pardon my barely disguised French, we are full of should, and it’s bull-should.

It’s time to shed our shoulds and our shame.

However, writing it has the opposite of its intended effect. I’m starting to get down on myself, defeated. I’ve been through this before. So. many. times. I bring my life into balance by listening to the whispered wisdom of my soul, but then, ever so stealthily, my shoulds sneak back in. And before I know it, I don’t have time for some avocado toast with my daughter.

I shouldn’t let that happen ever again, I think, ignoring the irony once more.

Don’t Shed Your Shoulds

The cafe is almost empty when she arrives. We grab a table at the back and she tells me about her morning while we wait for our food. It’s perfect. Until it isn’t.

Soon, more hungry high schoolers arrive, in packs, together. None of them are with a parent. I want my daughter to feel like she belongs in high school, and this doesn’t seem like a good start. Suddenly, my insides are a very, very unpleasant place to be.

Not so long ago, I would have tried to make it feel better in there by making suggestions to my daughter. Why don’t you go over and talk to so-and-so? Or, Do you want to get our food to go? Now I know those are ways I close my heart to the moment, trying to control it rather than simply connecting with it. So, instead, I open my heart to what is.

At the last Front Row Dads retreat, someone said: we make the mistake of parenting our kids to survive our childhood, when we could be parenting them to thrive in their childhood.

As I open my heart, I become aware there’s still a high school freshman somewhere in me who doesn’t feel like he belongs. He wore button-fly jeans to his first day of high school because they were trendy, not to mention the “Button Your Fly” t-shirt he tucked into those blue jeans, just in case anyone overlooked the most impractical pair of pants humankind has ever created.

More than thirty years later, I’m sitting there in the cafe, just a hundred yards from the very same high school I attended as a boy, and I know exactly where all of my shoulds come from. They come from fourteen-year-old me.

When we try to eliminate our shoulds, we’re accidentally shaming the younger part of us from which those shoulds arose in the first place, guaranteeing we’ll generate even more shoulds.

Have Lunch with Them, Instead

When I walked into that cafe, I had no idea I’d be having lunch with two high school freshman, but that’s exactly what happens: my daughter in front of me, and younger-me inside of me. I welcome him to the meal instead of pushing him into my depths. I offer him my veggie sandwich on gluten-free bread. He winces at it. He’s more of a double-quarter-pounder guy.

I ask him what he really wanted to wear to his first day of high school.

He says gym shorts and a hoodie.

I tell him I’ve got good news: he now gets to wear that to work every day.

His eyes grow wide.

He’s feeling calmer now. He’s okay. So I’m free to turn my attention back to my daughter who hasn’t seemed to notice anything. Her golf coach is her computer apps teacher, she’s telling me—that was a highlight. It turns out, she’s okay, too.

And with my heart open to all of it, I’m okay, three.

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