Tag: bravery

The Brave Face

As caregivers, we become skilled at putting on a brave face.

Every weekend, I play tennis at a club near our house. I’ve been playing there for a few years, and a group of us have become friendly. We ask about each other’s lives and families, even though many of us have never met their families. A few, though, met my wife and son when we first became members, including a few who happen to be doctors and know of my son’s epilepsy.

After my goddaughter’s surgery, I reached out to one in particular—someone I’ve gotten to know better than the others—for advice. Even though it wasn’t her specialty, the good doctor took the time to provide recommendations. Now, when we see each other on the court, she asks how my goddaughter is doing, too.

It’s weird trying to figure out how much information to share. With most of the group, a generic “doing well” is enough. For people who have met my family, I get a little more specific and use names. For the doctor, she knows milestones like recent surgeries or treatments.

But no one knows everything.

It’s the same at work. My core team knows about my son. I’m open about being a parent of a child with special needs, and it helps explain the time off I use to take him to appointments. A few also know that my goddaughter is living with us, and that I sometimes take her to appointments, as well.

But they don’t know everything, either.

I show up on the tennis court and at work with a brave face, a mask many of us use to avoid deeper questions. Some days, I wear the face to hide how hard it really is—because my reality might overwhelm most people, and I worry it would make things awkward. If this isn’t your world, what would you say or how would you respond if someone provided details of their challenges that represent the baseline they exist in every day?

Well, my son had extra seizures this morning, so I didn’t sleep because, you know, SUDEP. And we’re waiting to hear if we can get assistance to send him to the only school we’ve found where he thrives, or if we have to send him to another school and hope for the best. He’s feeling alone and isolated over the summer, but it’s okay because we have our goddaughter here and they get along really well. Unfortunately, she has her medical challenges, so what they can do together is limited. And that’s only when we’re not helping with her challenges, or worried about her, or juggling appointments. My wife and I are managing, but it’s put a lot of strain on us, too. My job is going well, though. Thanks for asking, how are you?

Even that only scratches the surface. Each of those threads is long, twisted, and knotted into a giant Gordian Knot with the other threads and it’s impossible to untie. Every day feels like we’re pulling at one of those threads, only to come to a spot where another thread blocks our progress.

Another reason that I put on a brave face is because it gives me an opportunity to not focus on an impossible task for a few hours. I don’t have to field questions about why I look so tired, or to catch someone up on the state of my life. I can just show up and play tennis. Or I can just do my job.

Because, eventually, the match ends. The meetings end. The mask comes off.

I walk back to my car or close my laptop and return to the full weight of our life. To the unanswered questions, the unsolved problems, the countless needs that won’t wait. The brave face helps me move through the world, but it’s not who I am. It’s just what I wear to make it through the day.

Underneath, I am tired. I am scared. I am trying.

The brave face isn’t a lie—it’s just not the whole truth.

And sometimes, putting it on is the bravest thing we can do.

Trying Something New

Shortly before the year started at my son’s new school, we received an e-mail announcing that they were recruiting for their soccer team. When we mentioned it to our son, he was excited, so we signed him up.

On the first day of practice, I took my last meetings from the bleachers to check in on my son. Soccer practice was after a full day of school, which was also something new for him, so I wanted to make sure that he wouldn’t push himself past the point of exhaustion.

The team was a mix of kids who had never played soccer before alongside seasoned veterans who ran circles around the other kids. My son was in the former category. I could tell there was a lot of new information being thrown at him, but he hung in there. When practice was over, I gave him a high five, and we headed home.

That night, as I was putting my son to bed, we talked more about his day. When the topic of soccer came up, he said he was excited but also very tired, adding, “maybe I’ll skip soccer tomorrow.”

As we talked more, it was obvious that the full day of school and soccer practice was physical and mentally draining, but there was more to it. Soccer was something new, too, and he wasn’t good at it yet. He was feeling nervous and insecure, especially since one of his friends on the team was much better than my son.

It’s easy to get excited about something new. Still, sometimes that excitement only carries you up to the point where you have to do the new thing: signing up for a new activity like soccer, moving to a new location, or changing jobs. But when you are standing on the side of the field, about to put in an offer on a new home, or reading a job offer, that’s when the fear and uncertainty creep in.

What if I’m not good at it? What if someone else is better? What if I get rejected? What if I make the wrong choice? What if the new thing is worse? What if I miss out on something better? What if I don’t deserve this?

Those voices in our heads that question our choices and our worthiness get louder as we get closer to acting on that excitement. They thrive in uncertainty and fill in the gaps between what we know and what we don’t know yet with stories of fear and doubt. They don’t want us to put ourselves out there. They don’t want us to fail. They want to keep us safe. But they can also keep us from something better.

I look at my own life and how many times I was afraid to start something new. I think about the experiences I would have missed out on had I not taken the next step.

I shared with my son stories of when I was afraid or uncertain. I told him how I was nervous when I joined the Army, and the first time I played drop-in hockey in the city, even though I didn’t know anyone. I told him about getting on stage to give a presentation, and how I still get nervous when writing a post for this blog. I told him how I wasn’t sure that I could do any of those things, just like he wasn’t sure about soccer. But, especially when it is something that you want to do, sometimes the hardest thing is taking that next step.

Not everything went the way I thought it would or wanted it to, but I can look back and be proud that I took that next step. I can be grateful for the experiences that I’ve had. And I can use those experiences as a catalyst the next time I face uncertainty, insecurity, and doubt.

“Let’s see how you feel in the morning,” I said. “We shouldn’t make any decisions when we’re this tired.”

“OK, daddy,” he replied and turned to the side and closed his eyes.

The following day, he came down for breakfast, already dressed and ready for school.

“Good morning, daddy,” he said, pointing at his socks. “These are soccer socks because they are long like soccer players wear.”

“I see that,” I said. “How are you feeling about playing today?”

“I’m excited,” he replied. “I think I was just tired last night and a little nervous, but I’m ready to get on the field!”

He sailed through the next few practices and now spends time between practice kicking the ball in the yard. He also learned that one of his friends in the neighborhood was on a soccer team and picked up a few tips from him.

He got through that initial fear and found a new activity that he enjoys doing. Not every story will have such a happy ending, but he would never have known unless he took that next step.

I am so proud of my boy.

Practicing Life

A few months ago, we went to a water park resort for my son’s birthday.

I like water parks as much as I like dysentery (they’re basically the same thing). But it wasn’t my birthday, and the destination was an impromptu backup after the initial birthday plans had to be scrapped.

My son was understandably excited, so after we dropped off our luggage, we changed into our swimsuits and headed to the slides. The resort was massive. We navigated through the restaurants and arcade until we found the doors to the oversized Petri dish. I grabbed us a stack of towels, took a deep breath, and stepped through.

The park itself was a feat of engineering. Huge slides and pools were efficiently organized to take advantage of every inch of space. The concrete and florescent lights were clear indicators that nothing about this place was natural, but the deep scent of chlorine was very reassuring.

I surveyed the crowd, wondering which one of them was Patient Zero for the impending outbreak. I eyed the teenage staff skeptically, wondering if these were the people with whom I entrust my safety and the safety of my family. But then I saw my son’s face and his smile and I smiled back and got in line with him.

We rode a few slides that, I admit, were fun. Obviously, I had my eyes and mouth closed as tightly as a vault but, for a few minutes, I forgot how my son always winds up drinking the water in the pool and was able to enjoy myself.

From one of the slides, we caught a glimpse of an obstacle course that my son wanted to try, so we walked over and he got in line.

While we waited, I watched the other kids, mostly older, take their turns. The course was a series of platforms tethered to the bottom of the pool. They drifted further apart of closer together depending on the momentum generated by the person on them. Older kids had an easier time to reach the next platform because of their height, but then they would slide off the wet surface into the pool to the delight of their friends.

A few positions ahead of my son was a little girl, maybe four or five years old. She was much shorter than the other kids, which was more noticeable as her mother brought her up to the starting line. I watched as her mother gave her some words of encouragement then slowly backed away.

In my head, I was thinking that the mother should be closer. She was going to need to help her daughter navigate the course. She would have to hold her hand and encourage her, make her feel safe, and help her along. But then the little girl bent her knees and jumped.

She barely made it to the first platform but had enough contact with the surface that she was able to pull herself up. As she eyed the next platform, her mother smiled and the rest of the audience started to pay attention. From platform to platform, she unorthodoxly jumped and made her way across the course. At every pedestal, she’d slide partially off but manage to hold on and pull herself back up. Every time, the audience cheered.

All the while, her mother stood a few feet away. It was only as the girl reached the end of the course that her mother went over to her and celebrated with her. They held hands as they walked off together, celebrating victory.

The thing that struck me most about that situation was the mother, and how she kept her distance to let her daughter try the course by herself. It made me think about all the times I don’t do that for my son. I often feel like I am the “helicopter dad”, hovering no more than a few feet away. If I’m not doing something for him, I’m telling him how to do it so that he doesn’t make a mistake or feel embarrassed for being wrong when he raises his hand to a question he can’t answer. Instead of letting him be brave and celebrating that bravery, I keep him from figuring it out by himself.

I want to make his life easier because so many things are so hard. I want to do everything for him. I tell myself that it’s a matter of safety, or because he needs the extra help because of seizures or medications or exhaustion. But much like how training wheels prevent kids from practicing balance, one of the most important skills for riding a bike, I’m preventing him from practicing life.

I grew up (and still am, to a large extent) afraid of making mistakes. Afraid of trying new things. Afraid of what other people will say. Afraid of putting myself out there. My worst fear is passing those fears on to my son. But somehow, in spite of my best intentions, he continues to be brave. He continues to raise his hand before he knows the question. He still tackles challenges that are much bigger than him. And he still gets himself to the edge and isn’t afraid to jump.

It’s not easy, but I am learning to stand behind him instead of above him. I’d rather catch him if he falls instead of doing everything for him. I’d rather celebrate his victories and failures instead of keeping him from owning either. And I’d rather him practice life while I am here so that I can help him if he needs it, but so I can also watch him learn to balance on his own.