Choose Your Own Adventure

I remember when I was a child, I’m not sure how old anymore. It must have been somewhere between grades 2 and 6, between 8 and 11 years of age. I used to love reading those “choose your own adventure” novels.

Remember those?

You would start reading the novel just like any other book; at the beginning. You would read it until a certain point and then you’d have to choose the next step. You were given two or three options, usually, and each option changed the direction of the book completely. In a sense, you were writing that book as you went along. You were the author of that story.

Life is like that too; just a series of quick pauses and a few options.

I wish someone had explained that to us as kids. To me. How truly symbolic a “Choose your own Adventure” novel is of a human life. A personal journey. Now THAT would have been a lesson to learn all those years ago.

Perhaps if we had been taught that growing up, we would find ourselves less attached to outcomes and more open to possibilities.

Every novel would start at the beginning, the way everything starts. You couldn’t choose when, where, who, etc, you just had to make choices based on what you were given. The same way we don’t get to choose when we are born, where we live, who our parents are and what we are given, or not given.

You would rush to your first set of options. You knew in advance that you would be given some, but there was no way of knowing what they would be.

Would they lead to travel in faraway lands? Would they help you find love? Friendships? Hidden treasure? Success? You were unsure, but the story was full of possibilities.

Your first set of options were always so exciting.

Some seemed terrifying. Almost too adventurous for your first real choice. You had to test the waters. Get your feet wet before you committed to something so unfamiliar. Some seemed to lead to a sadness that was equally terrifying. Some were happy. Some were strange. It didn’t matter what you chose though, you knew that it was just the first of many.

By the time your next set of options came, you were far more committed to the journey. You started to figure out who the main character was. Maybe you even started to enjoy where that journey was taking you.

The next options took you closer to the end. You knew you had less time for the outcome that you wanted and you started to think more strategically about the choices you were making.

At this point, you may have learned that the most terrifying things led to the most wonderful treasures. Or that what seemed like the happiest paths led to a loss you weren’t prepared for. Sometimes treasures were lost as quickly as they were found.

The only certainty you had was that you had to continue making choices to get to the end. It was the only way. You had started a journey and you had to see it through.

What I learned from reading those “Choose your own adventure” novels is that you didn’t have to like the ending. That it was just a story. A journey. If you didn’t like the ending you chose, you could go back to the turning point and choose again. You could go back as many turning points as you needed to and try a new path.

Sometimes in life, we get so stuck on an ending we don’t like, we forget that we are the authors of this story. That at any moment, we can try again. Pick another path. Rewrite the ending.

The difference between life and a novel is that life only gives you one true ending; death. In the meantime, you get to “choose your own adventure.” The same way you did as a child, so many years ago.

Death

Less than 5 months ago, I sat in a graveyard surrounded by freshly dug graves. In those graves were the bodies of hundreds of Ebola victims. In those bodies, lived beautiful souls.

Death is so final.

Not including war and HIV/AIDS, I’ve now worked disasters that led to the total death of over 20, 000 people. That is only my international experience. An experience I don’t often discuss. How can you even begin to describe what that feels like? How can you even want to explain what that looks like?

Death ends a life and destroys so many others.

It’s an interesting thing for me though, death. Being faced with so much of it, I’ve spent a lot of time processing what it means to die. And what it means to watch someone die. And what it means to be the one that gets to live.

I’ve seen some of the most violent deaths you can imagine. In my field, death is rarely peaceful. I’ve heard countless stories of the same. I’ve seen the scars; physical, mental and emotional. I’ve wiped the tears. I’ve held children that were now left completely alone in this world. Sometimes I wonder how I can be so numb to it all.

But I am numb.

You go through periods where you question how you can do what you do. How you can watch everyone around you fall apart completely, and you don’t even shed a tear. That’s often spoken of as a strength, but the truth is, it scares the hell out of me sometimes. In the moment and shortly afterwards.

But I am only numb because I have to be.

There is no weakness in feeling. There is no shame in crying. But I have to play a role that involves allowing everyone else to do that, without turning to that myself. In the moment, I have to be numb to keep moving. To keep working. To keep my focus.

It scares me but I understand it.

You don’t bounce back from this work. You don’t heal. You don’t forget. But you get to survive. Sometimes, even that can feel like you drew the short straw. But I am grateful. Always.

You go numb and you do whatever you have to do to feel again. My self care routine is strong. So strong, that sometimes it looks selfish to those who don’t understand. I don’t fault them for their feelings, but I don’t care either. I take my time to myself. I work out. I travel alone. I speak about it when I need to. I write. I do what I have to do to process my feelings. To feel again. To remember that my numbness isn’t as permanent as the death that causes it.

5 months ago, I returned from Sierra Leone, after working at the Ebola Treatment Centre. I left death and arrived home, to the news of another death. A more personal one. I thought I was ready for the funeral. I was still numb.

Standing in that graveyard, the whole world was spinning around me. I was surrounded by people who were feeling something. So much of something. So much of everything. People that I loved.

I stood there and all I could see was death. I couldn’t hear anything. I couldn’t breathe. In a graveyard, so close to home. I saw names. I saw graves. I saw Sierra Leone. Africa. The Ebola Treatment Centre. Death. I could feel the vomit coming. I couldn’t stop the tears. I had to leave.

It was in that moment that I came back to me.

I always do and I always will. This is the cycle I live.

Until my dying day.

Minimum Wage, Maximum Life

Growing up with very little, teaches you a lot.

A lot about life.  A lot about love.  Money.  Power.  Respect.  Time.  Value.  What’s important and what isn’t.

Character.  Poverty builds character.  Characters.  I have seen many.

Fair or unfair, we are all a product of the life we are given.  We are not born with a choice.  We are just born.  The circumstances around that are out of our control.

Who we become, some of those decisions are taken from us too.

I’m not sure who I would have been if I hadn’t been broken so early.  If I had ever known what it felt like to be whole.  If I hadn’t experienced so much shortage.  Pain.  Anger.  Violence.  Hurt.  Loss.  If the external influences in my life were more positive than negative.  If I knew what love was supposed to feel like.  Who knows what that Sandra would have looked like today?!?  Not me.

Still, I have never been concerned with who I might have been.  I’ve never been uncomfortable with who I am.  I’ve never been afraid to find out who I will become next.

I may not have been born with choices, but I’ve made many since.

One of the most important choices I made, was in the design of my career.  That choice was built around experiences.  Feelings.  Having felt poverty.  Having felt hunger.  Having felt homelessness.  Having felt a dependence on various systems.  I have felt what having nothing feels like and therefore, I have no fear of it.

Not being afraid doesn’t mean I want to ever experience it again.  I don’t!  It just means that I know what I am able to survive, regardless of how much, or how little I have.  It means that I understand the value of something, and the lesson in nothing.

Growing up with little left me with the belief that I had 3 options in life…

1. Continue with nothing.  Be content with shortage.  Struggle.

2. Search for something different.  Something more.  Be bigger.  Be better.  Hustle.  Strive for money and power.  Live a life of material wealth.  Forget what shortage ever felt like.

3. To find a balance.  To find comfort.  To find true happiness outside of money.  Outside of luxury.  Satisfaction without concern for the expectation of others.

I chose option 3.  Again.  Always option 3.  The happy medium.  Never too little.  Never too much.  Good enough for me.  Plenty.

I built my life around that.  Balance.  Money would never be my motivation.  Power would never be my motivation.  Luxury, I didn’t need that.  I still don’t.  My goal was simple, if I were to rise, it would be without regret.  I was content with simplicity.

Minimum wage, maximum life.

Balance.

I’ve lived that reality for most of my life and I’ve loved every minute of it.

When I started my current job, it was part of my journey.  A natural progression for the career path I’ve chosen to walk.  It came with more money and more power but it also came with much personal sacrifice.  It paid more, but I made less. It meant working long hours. Evenings. Weekends. More time away from my family. Less time with friends. Less time for the gym. Less time for school. Less time for recreational activities. Hobbies. Painting. Writing. Less time for all the things that made me, me.  Still, I loved it.  I loved the possibility of it.  How it provided an opportunity for me to work on so many of my different personal passions.  How it combined the ability to learn, grow, be creative, be active, be flexible, affect change where it really mattered.  It was perfect.  The trade-off was worth it.  It was just me, happily rising without regret.

As a baby, I was given the nickname “estrelhinha”, meaning “little star” in Portuguese.  Told that I’ve always been able to light up a room, I have been known for my smile.  It’s the one thing you will never see me without.  My smile.  Even with nothing, I’ve always had something.

The last few weeks at work have become increasingly difficult.  An internal struggle between the love I have for the position/people I serve/the possibilities, and the dislike I have for the egos of some of the people I have to work with.  Today was a reminder of the option I chose so many years ago.  Happiness.

Somewhere along this path, I seem to have lost my balance.  Somewhere along this path, my smile has begun to fade.  I needed the reminder.  I’m not sure where my path will take me next.  I don’t know what choices I will make in order to find that balance again.

When I was in Sierra Leone, we had daily surveillance meetings at the local hospital.  In the room where the meetings were held, there was a sign on the wall with the following written on it:

If you lose your wealth, you’ve lost nothing.

If you lose your health, you’ve lost something.

If you lose your character, you’ve lost everything.

 

I can live with nothing, but I can’t live without my smile.

Time to refocus.

Making changes.

 

 

Option 3

Life has been busy.  Adulthood is busy.  Actually, thinking about my kid’s schedules, childhood is busy too.  Alright, back to life than.

LIFE is busy!!!  Mine is no exception.

If you’ve been following along, you’ll be very familiar with the rollercoaster that is 2015.  If you know me at all, you’ll know that I LOVE rollercoasters.  If you know rollercoasters, you know that they end almost as quickly as they begin.  THIS rollercoaster is in obvious need of repair.  I’ve been travelling at high-speed for a little too long and this lady is getting queasy.

Before you start to panic, please realize that I’m half playing.  HALF!  One half is actually in need of a break, the other half is thoroughly enjoying the ride.  I love my work.  I truly do.  I’m driven by action, fueled by passion and in total and complete love with my life.

But life is busy and I’m tired.

I started the year with 5 weeks of vacation; 3 from 2015 and 2 carried over from 2014.  Getting deployed to Sierra Leone in February meant putting all 5 weeks towards my 8 weeks away.  Imagine how badly I needed a vacation when I returned from working at the Ebola Treatment Centre.  Imagine how difficult it was knowing that I had absolutely no time left in my vacation bank for the remainder of the year.  Imagine coming back to work to over 700 emails, voicemail and a cell phone ringing off the hook with everyone pulling you in every direction.  Imagine all of that by mid-April.

There is no way to sugar coat it, it sucked!!!!!

So, I had two options:

1. Pace myself.  Do what I could with the little time I had and not be as present as I would like.

2. Go hard!  Get done what I needed to get done, be present and satisfy the masses.

Option 1 meant less work and more rest.  Option 2 meant more overtime.  Overtime meant the possibility of building some lieu time.  Lieu time meant the opportunity for a vacation and/or time off during the year.  Option 2 won!  Hands down!

I’ve been living in option 2 for 7 weeks straight now.  I’ve worked many late nights, I’ve worked every weekend since I got back.  I’ve banked some lieu time and I have found relief in knowing that my feet will be walking along a beach at some point in 2015.  I’m happy with my choice.  I NEEDED to make that choice.

But now I’m tired!

Last Friday, I hit a wall.  I made another choice, option 3.

3. Unplug.  Shut down.  Take a break.  Breathe.

Friday ended with a shooting.  I could have worked all weekend but I literally had nothing left to give.  My kids needed me to be present.  I needed them to remind me to slow down.  Option 3.  I shut myself off from work for the entire weekend.  I didn’t watch the news.  I didn’t check my emails.  I didn’t answer my phone.  I didn’t check my voicemail.

I hung out with my children.  I watched my oldest son play baseball.  I spent the entire day watching my youngest son compete in his lacrosse tournament.  I laughed.  I napped.  I wrote.  I spent time with friends and family.  I fully embraced option 3.

Last night, I went to bed at 9pm.  I slept a solid 9 hours.  I felt amazing when I woke up this morning at 6am.  I got up, got ready and went to the gym.  I did a one hour spin class, took a shower, got dressed, bought coffee, ate my overnight oats and I was at my desk by 8:30am.  I was recharged and fully ready for Monday!

My morning started off with a meeting.

Meetings are the number one productivity killer for me.  Seriously.  I truly believe that.  I’m an action person.  I go in, get shit done, and leave.  Meetings are not made to suit the needs of us ADHD folk.

I’m also rarely at the office.

My work requires me to be on the road, in my car and in the community all the time.  When I’m at the office, I usually have an obscene amount of paperwork to do, petty cash to turn in, catch up conversations to have with my team and other members of my division.  Everyone always has something to say to me.  Getting my work done at the office means I spend most of my time trying to hide from people.

Today, it was meetings and hiding.

In the middle of a second meeting, I got the alert that there was a homicide.  2pm.  Daylight murder.  My phone started ringing immediately.  Shit!!!!

When an incident happens, the work starts immediately.  It’s non-stop action for the next few hours as you try to get all the information you can.  This is easy in my car.  This is easy in the community.  In the office, when you can’t hide, people come at you from everywhere.  “What happened?…I just heard?…It’s so sad?…Do you know anything yet?…Was it someone who lives in the area?…Were there any arrests?….Do they have any suspects?…Was it connected to anything else?….”

SHUT THE FUCK UP AND LET ME DO MY JOB!!!!

That’s what I want to say.  I usually just answer briefly and try to walk away.  It’s a huge pet peeve of mine but I understand that people are curious and for the most part, genuinely concerned.  I know this.  So, I try not to be rude, despite my annoyance.

Today, after 4 hours of emails and phone calls, I wanted to go home.  I hadn’t had a chance to use the washroom and my head was really starting to hurt.  I had an hour commute ahead of me and I just wanted to leave.  As I got up to go to the washroom, someone I worked with decided it would be a good time to discuss a situation that she experienced that really upset her.  I listened to her for about 10 minutes before her phone rang and she had to go.  After about an hour of holding in my pee, I finally got to go to the washroom in peace.  I said goodbye and wished her a good evening.

I go into the stall and sit on the toilet.  Yes, I SIT on the toilet.  Sorry germophobes, at this point, I’m way too exhausted from the activity of the day to hold a squat.  I take a breath, ahhhhhhh….peace!

I’m in the middle of my pee when the door swings open.  Sure enough, she storms into the washroom to finish telling me the rest of her story.

I’m sitting there and all I can think is, “Is this actually really fucking happening?  What has happened in my life that I can’t even pee in peace at work?”

THIS rollercoaster is in obvious need of repair. I’ve been travelling at high-speed for a little too long and this lady is getting queasy.

Boys are gross.

So my preteen (from hell) decided to lose his shit the other day.  It was awful. Hours of screaming, crying, threatening to run away. His hormones are raging and he’s struggling.  

Luckily, or unluckily for him, he has two parents who are in this field. So, he gets a mix of conversation and problem solving possible strategies for helping to manage his anger. Not in those words exactly but let’s just call it what it is.

One of the things we tell him to do sometimes when he starts to escalate is to go take a bath. Cool down. Relax. Enjoy some quiet time in a private space. Process your thoughts before reacting. Take the damn time out.  Take it before I throw you out the window!!!!  But I don’t tell him that last part, that’s an inside voice. 

This was one of the options presented to him the other day. He thought it might be a good idea, which made me happy. His time out also helps me get MY time out!  It’s a double bonus. 

We decided to go for a mommy/son run first.  I love those times. We have some pretty serious conversations while walking. He tries to talk when we are running but that’s not my thing.  Normally, I run with music but I’m on momma bear high alert when I run with my kids, so listening to music is not an option.  To not have music is already annoying enough but when he tries to talk, I’m not having it. Our mommy/son runs involve intervals because of this; jog, walk, sprint, walk, jog, etc.  

We jog next to each other during our jog periods.  

We have serious conversations about serious issues while walking.  

We full out race during the sprints (I still kill him in the races).  

This is what we do. It’s our thing. One of our many things.  I love it. 

So, we choose to do that on this night, which brings me back to the original reason for this blog…

BOYS

ARE

GROSS 

The bath was an option that was on the table for cooling down.  We had already established that before going for a run.  Going for a run meant he would be taking one anyway. So, when we got home, I asked him if he was going to take his bath now.  

He looked at me and said “I’m just going to take a bath to relax, I’m not going to use soap or anything.”

Really?

You’re already doing EVERYTHING else, why not take a couple minutes and wash the preteen/just went for a run stink off your body?  

Gross!  Gross!  Gross!

It got me thinking about the million times this, or something like this has happened. At home. At work. Everywhere.  People “fake” clean themselves ALL the time!!!!  I see it everywhere. 

I see it at home all the time with my disgusting boys.  I see them wet their hands with water and run as far away in the other direction in hopes I don’t notice. I’ve seen them sprinkle water on the soap to make it look like they used it. I’ve seen them put just enough soap on their hands to make them smell good in case I ask to smell them when they leave. Gross!  

I see it in public washrooms from the door cracks. I watch people turn on the water and stand in front of it and play with their hair until the water has been running long enough to make whoever is in there believe that they washed their hands.  Then they ruffle some paper towels, throw it out and call it a day!  Gross! 

That shit takes thought and effort.  You could have actually washed your hands more easily and quickly then in the time it took you to pretend. 

If you’re already making all that effort anyway, why not just do it?  Or not do it. Pretending just seems like a waste of time. Own your grossness or clean yourself properly.

I don’t get it.

After all that, my son and I decided to make smoothies before the bath. Chocolate peanut butter banana strawberry almond milk hemp hearts and chia seeds smoothie, to be exact. Yum!!!  Somehow we got to talking while enjoying our smoothies.  Then it was bedtime and he kissed me goodnight and went to bed.  

About 20 minutes later, I realized there was no bath.  He got me!  Punk!!!!  

He IS gross but at least he owns his grossness.

Reality is raw.

Yesterday I wrote a blog about a very real experience. It was undeniably raw.  It was supposed to be. 

I was bleeding truth. 

Many of you sent messages of concern.  Some came directly to me. Others went to people close to me.  

The message that I was not ok spread quickly through every part of my life.  

Those who know me well understood the honesty in my story.  They read what I wrote.  REALLY read what I wrote.  They felt the pain, but understood the beauty I found in the moment. They allowed themselves to focus on each word until the very end.  They knew I was in a good place. 

Those who don’t know me well saw only the pain in my story.  They couldn’t see past the hurt long enough to process my actual words. They had convinced themselves that I must have been in a bad place. 

I don’t know where you fall on that spectrum.  I’m not sure if even you know.  While I appreciate the concern, I assure you, there is no need to worry. 

I am very honest about my process. 

I am quite comfortable with my truth.

I am incredibly pleased with the individual I’ve grown to become. 

I’m very much in love with my life. 

I. 

AM. 

OKAY. 

I believe that story needed to be written.  So, I wrote it.  It was raw. It was real. It was beautiful.  

It’s a truth we are no longer used to. 

I saw a quote the other day that made me think:

“There is no such thing as a bad picture, sometimes that’s just how your face looks.”

It stayed with me. 

We live in a world where we control how others see our reality.  We create profiles in order to collect “friends”, “followers” and “likes”.   We post happy faces. Filtered faces. Good times. We leave out all the rest as if it never existed.

I remember when I was a teenager. When taking pictures involved having to get film developed and printed.  You would be excited to pick up the pictures at the store.  You’d sit around with your family or friends and scroll through them, one by one.  You’d laugh at the horrible ones.  Those awful pictures made some of the best memories. 

Now, they are deleted instantly.  Retaken until we finally get it right.  We deny ourselves these memories because we don’t want evidence of anything shy of perfection.  

Reality is no longer real and we have just accepted THAT as our new reality. 

My story was raw. 

It had to be written. 

I wrote it because I want people to see that real still exists, regardless of the images of perfection we are bombarded with daily. 

We don’t always look perfect.  We don’t always smile. Not every moment is a good one. 

We breathe.

We hurt. 

We cry.  

We love. 

We lose.  

But our lives don’t always need filters. 

Emotion is not something to fear. Pain is not always something to be concerned about. We all experience it.  We’ve just become so used to feeling it alone. In silence. In private. Far away from the reality we feed the rest of the world.  And because of that, we forget that others feel it too. When smiling pictures turn to tears, we panic.  When life gets real, we worry.  

Yesterday I wrote a blog about a very real experience. It was undeniably raw.  It was supposed to be. 

I was bleeding truth. 

 

 

This is it.

I’m all packed up. 

I’ve said my no touch goodbyes. 

Not quite sure if I’m ready to go but there is no alternate option. 

Today is the day.

The next three days will feel longer than the last five weeks combined.

In just under two hours, I’ll begin my journey back home.  Into the arms of those I care about. Into the life I am used to living.  The life I know. The comfort of everyday. Still, that always seems like the most unfamiliar place to go back to after a mission.  

I’ve been preparing myself, physically, mentally and emotionally, for this day. For the next three weeks.  And partially, for the next few months.  

It’s a process. 

I have smiled at the thought of leaving.  

I have cried at thought of leaving.

This is not something you can normally share freely.  Not without risking the feelings of others.  Those who love you. Those who wait weeks, months, years to see you. Those who have practically planned out everything they want to say and do when you return.  If they had any idea how much you fear those moments. Those reunions.  They would question their own value in your life.  It’s not worth sharing. 

Those who don’t know, will never understand. 

In three days, I will feel suffocated by the life I live.

This is it. 

You’ll disagree (spoken word)

You had big dreams 

of being a star 

but your pride didn’t let you get that far 

and so you settled for a life 

that everybody else lives 

you got your wife 

and your cars 

and your house 

and your kids 

and still you walk with your pride 

your words filled with lies 

and you tell yourself it’s always 

what you wanted and you smile 

and they only see 

what you want them to see 

serving spoons full of promises 

you never mean to keep

You’ll hear these words 

and you’ll disagree 

but I know you better 

than you think 

Whose gonna save you from yourself 

when you’re starting to believe the lies 

you tell everyone else 

You blow her a kiss and wave goodbye 

and she stands and she smiles 

and she wonders why 

you can have anyone that you choose 

the perfect man and a love 

that she could never bear to lose 

and you drive away 

and her heart skips a beat 

and you pick up your phone 

and another woman speaks 

You tell her you love her 

and you’ll see her soon 

And you turn up the radio 

and look up at the moon

You’ll hear these words 

and you’ll disagree 

but I know you better 

than you think 

Whose gonna save you from yourself 

when you’re starting to believe the lies 

you tell everyone else 

Surrounding yourself with women 

that will never leave 

you like them attached 

so they can’t wander free 

taking care of their families

Keeps them busy 

and you can call on whoever

it is that you need 

You tell them you love them 

and they will believe 

You’re the knight in shining armor 

that makes them feel free 

and you think that this 

makes you a better man 

because you give them the love 

that their husbands can’t

You’ll hear these words 

and you’ll disagree 

but I know you better 

than you think 

Whose gonna save you from yourself 

when you’re starting to believe the lies 

you tell everyone else 

Something went very wrong….

Last night, I had the pleasure of celebrating the beginning of Black History Month at a youth organized/led event in one of the communities I work with. It was amazing.

Not that I’m surprised.

I don’t believe there is a limit to what youth are able to accomplish with passion, purpose and the right partnerships/mentors.

I’ve worked with youth for most of my life, in some capacity. Professionally, for the last 14 years.

Before I worked in shelters, I lived in them.
Before I helped people secure housing, I slept on the streets.
Before I told youth the importance of staying in school, I dropped out.
Before I worked for social services, I was dependant on them.
Before I worked with addictions, I went to rehab.
Before I worked with women and children surviving violence, I was a victim.
Before I worked with mental health, I tried to kill myself.
Before I called City Hall my office, I sold drugs outside of it.

Young mother. Eating disorder. Poor. Speaking English as a second language. Child of newcomers to Canada. Single mother. Welfare. Homeless. Drug addict. Street kid. Connected to the street life. Drug dealer. High school dropout. Broken. VICTIM.

I watched my friends die. I watched my friends go to prison. I watched the world, as they watched me, waiting for me to fail again and again. I was everything they told me I would be. Everything and Nothing. Another wasted youth.

But I WAS more than that. I WANTED more than that. I DESERVED more than that. I was BETTER than that!

And so I sought the path that would allow me to accept who I was and what I had done. I wouldn’t allow myself to be defined by others, but I embraced everything I had experienced as part of my journey.

For years, I’ve watched youth workers tell youth that they are better than what the world sees. That they can strive for something greater than what generations before us had. That they can have whatever they want if they put the energy and effort into getting it.

“You’re better than that!”

I couldn’t tell you how many times I’ve repeated that line myself.

Last night, I stayed to help clean up after the event. It was held at a Recreation Centre and things got pretty messy. There was a large spill on the floor and I quickly ran to get the mop from the custodian. As I was mopping up the spill, a young girl looked at me and said “Why are you mopping? You’re better than that!”

The only thing I could think to say at the time was, “No, I will never be above mopping.”

And then I reflected on that for the rest of the evening.

After all these years of sharing that message, I realized that something went wrong. We focused so much on encouraging youth to believe in themselves and their abilities, and somehow we failed to explain what that really meant.

“You’re better than that!”

That was never meant to minimize the value of others and the roles that they play. I’m not above mopping a floor, scrubbing a toilet, serving food. I’m not better than anyone.

I come from a long line of general labourers and cleaners. My family, my friends, they did what they had to do to survive. How can I think of myself as better than the people that fed me, clothed me, raised me? What does a belief like that do to us?

Instead of teaching youth to strive to be better versions of themselves, we have taught them to perpetuate oppression. To believe that certain roles should only be held by certain people.

Who, then, is not better than mopping floors?

We have taught them to judge people and their worth by the jobs they hold, or don’t hold. By the things they possess or fail to possess. We’ve taught them that they should strive to be better than “those people”, whoever they are.

We didn’t do it intentionally, but we missed a big part of the message.

We missed the piece where we teach the value of everyone.
Everything.
Every role.

We failed to teach them to think critically about how our class systems were created. About who defined what roles were important and who would play those roles in our society.

We failed to explain that life is about working together to clean up our world, literally and figuratively.

We failed and we need to do better.

Youth.
The possibilities are endless.

“You’ll understand when you’re older!”

“You’ll understand when you’re older!”

Go fuck yourself. Well, that’s a natural response for a child/teenager whose experiences are minimized with that one stupid line, “you’ll understand when you’re older.”

I heard it all the time. It did nothing for the pain. Nothing. The only thing it taught me was that adults don’t understand. What I felt was real. It hurt. Adults didn’t understand how difficult it was to grow up.

So, fast forward…here I am, 33 years old. I catch myself looking into the eyes of my 12 year old son and I say, “You’ll understand when you’re older!”

HOLY SHIT! They were right!

He was upset. He was being selfish. He was trying to make me upset. Actually, he was trying to avoid going to bed at bedtime by engaging me in a conversation that he knew I wouldn’t be able to ignore. Smart move, it worked! I got upset. I was beyond upset. I was so upset, I actually considered sitting him down and telling him about all the sacrifices I had made in my life for HIM! I thought about crying. I thought about yelling. I thought maybe he deserved a slap in the face for being so hurtful. So many thoughts ran through my mind in such a short period and in the end, the only thing that made sense to say was, “You’ll understand when you’re older!”

Four months ago, I was offered and accepted a new position. A position that I had worked my entire life for. A position that allowed me to advance in my career without losing the connection to the front line and one that provided the ability to continue doing my international work, which is very important to me. A position I felt truly passionate about that also offered a big increase in salary and benefits. A position like this is hard to find in my line of work. It was my absolute dream job and the timing couldn’t be better. I knew when I accepted this position that the hours would be long; the position is demanding and I have to be available on-call. I sat down with my husband and weighed the pros and cons before making the decision, but the pros outweighed the cons. This was a decision that would change my home life, I knew that, my family knew that. Although I knew all this, this decision, I made it for me and I have no regrets.

So my son looks me in the eye and says, “since you got your new job, you don’t spend any time with me anymore”.

OUCH!

This is his perception of our reality. It’s not at all true. Despite the long hours, I ensure that I’m home for a few hours before bedtime and that I don’t work very much, if at all, on the weekends. I am at sporting events, parent/teacher interviews, I help with homework, I take them to the doctor, I enjoy quality time with them when THEY want to and even when I have to force them to. I have 3 children and a husband, who all need me in different ways and my family always comes first.

Still I know his pain is real.

His life has changed so much in the last two years and it can’t be easy for him. My ex, his biological father, has had two children in that time. After being the center of attention for 10 years, he has to divide his time with his father with two babies that require a lot more attention. He played competitive sports for most of his life, before moving back to house league two years ago. For years, his 7 and 6 year old brothers have been dragged to his games and out of town tournaments. Now, he gets dragged to their games and tournaments and he hates it. Too bad. Family is important and we all support each other. He’s always struggled with school and now that he’s in grade 7, a lot of “quality time” with his mom and dad is spent making sure he’s doing his homework and assignments. Sure, he would rather not do any of that and go out and have all this one on one time doing really fun and exciting things. Who wouldn’t love that?!?! But, life happens. I can’t expect him to understand that, not yet anyway.

Still, although I understand that his comment is not really about me, I can’t help but reflect on it. It’s been a week now and I keep going back to it. As a mother, it hurt.

Women are under constant pressure to find the perfect life/family/work balance. I got pregnant with him at 20, and was a single mom by the time he was 6 months old. I’ve had to modify every career/life choice to fit into his life, our life. I have decided that I cannot feel guilt about wanting to have a successful and happy career. I cannot regret the choices I’ve made, especially the ones that make me happy. When I’m 45 years old, he will be 24. My other children will be 19 and 18 years old. I will likely have another 20 years of my career ahead of me and they will be making their own career choices, without any concern for my existence. I will accept that I’ve had to make different choices because I had children so young. I won’t accept feeling guilty or upset because life doesn’t feel perfect for my children.

So, to all the adults who sat me down to say “You’ll understand when you’re older”, you were right. I get it.

I’ll continue to love and support my children. I’ll continue to listen to their concerns and give them a safe place for them to express their feelings. I’ll continue to do my best to ensure they grow up to be happy individuals who contribute positively to the world. I’ll try to teach them that choices can be difficult, but necessary.

And when they don’t get it, I’ll simply give them a hug and a kiss and say, “You’ll understand when you’re older!”