how to be seen

On the occasional blue moon throughout my childhood, our mother would appear unannounced on the door step. Possessed by a sudden wave of bashfulness, we’d stand staring out at her from the hall, with no words to draw her across the threshold. Then, grinning like a Cheshire cat, she’d break the shocked silence with a gregarious gesture and in an instant a silly excitement would sweep through the house. Regardless of how long she’d been gone, we were always devastatingly pleased to see her. After all, she was our mother.

Never one for answering uncomfortable questions, she’d coat us with her sticky charm in order to avoid having to admit how long she planned to stay. So we’d hang on her every word, for fear it was her last, and furtively cancel our plans, knowing from experience that it would be while we were away that she’d surreptitiously take her leave. Of course we couldn’t avoid school, so after a few days we’d inevitably arrive home to learn that she was gone. Flattened with disappointment, we’d grieve our loss anew. She never stayed long, but knowing that did nothing to ease the sorrow.

As a result of her sporadic and unpredictable pattern of visitation, I developed an agonizing obsession of imagining every car turning into our street was hers, and I spent my early adolescence sneaking shameful glances down the road. It was all I could do to disguise this secret longing for someone I knew would never come. The painful truth was that as hard as I tried to will her to me, she and I were never connected.

For me, our mother’s visits were both glorious and wretched. While my siblings would willingly open their hearts like well worn books to the page on which she’d last written, I would covet mine in bitter defiance. I was angry that she could come and go as she pleased while I remained here, needing her. I’d learned the hard way that like a wild wind she’d no sooner arrive than she’d be gone again, and I couldn’t bear it. So during these rare and short lasting visits I kept her at arm’s length. I thought I was protecting myself from further hurt, but regardless of how detached I appeared the pain when she left was no less raw.

Since the earliest days of my childhood I’ve struggled with feeling vulnerable. What initially stemmed from a combination of pride and self preservation with regards to my mother is now an integral part of who I am. Perceiving emotional dependence as a brand of personal betrayal, I learnt to greedily guard my weakness. Now I’m wondering whether, had I been more like my siblings, who gladly offered theirs like a gift in open palms, I might possess more peace and contentment.

On Saturday I was at my weekly writing group in the city. A broad spectrum of individuals who write for both pleasure and profession, we meet weekly to discuss what we’ve been working on, offering suggestions and constructive criticism to one another. After having completed a five minute warm up writing activity, we’d commenced moving around the table and sharing what we’d written. Before long everyone’s eyes were on me. I didn’t want to share; what if they thought I was dumb? But I choked down the foul tasting fear and the words of decline that were dancing on my tongue and I began to read my work. Against my instincts, I permitted myself to connect. It felt good.

I’m realising that if I’m ever going to experience freedom in all its brilliance, I’m going to have to allow myself to be fragile. I know I can do it; I’m courageous. I just have to let go of the fear.

I think of how my mother looked as she stood on our front step, giddy with cheerfulness. I couldn’t understand how, after twenty five months of absence, she could show up and act so exuberant. But now I recognise that performance for what it was; a facade behind which she was sheltering her own vulnerability. While standing alone on the other side of the door, a part of her must have worried whether this time she’d be turned away. And she couldn’t bear to let us see how much that would sting. For all those years, I was incensed by her superficiality, but only now do I understand what was happening behind the veil. My mother, like me, was afraid to be truly seen.

I’ll close with an offering of wisdom spoken by Brene Brown, a lady who’s spent years researching the subject of vulnerability and whose uplifting and informative presentation I have included for your pleasure. It’s worth a watch; she’s quite the funny one.

There’s another way. We need to let ourselves be seen; deeply seen, vulnerably seen. We need to love with our whole heart, even though there’s no guarantee. We need to practice gratitude and joy in moments of complete terror and to just be grateful; feeling vulnerable means we’re alive. And we need to believe we’re enough. When we work from that place, we stop screaming and start listening. We are kinder and gentler to the people around us and we’re kinder and gentler to ourselves.



17 thoughts on “how to be seen

  1. Beautifully written. Powerful history. This is really quite a post Michelle. Vulnerability is key to moving through life and being open for all that might come your way. While I may have grieved many times, because I made myself vulnerable, I would also have missed many things without it. I hope during this year, that you quit your life, you find that sweet spot and embrace it. It is a journey that requires letting go, even as you dig in and hold on for the ride. Beautiful! 🙂

  2. Thank you for sharing something so intensely personal – it was a privilege to read it. You write beautifully and to read it I felt an incredible flow of connection. Again thank you.

  3. You should know that sharing you’re awful childhood happening has inspired and changed me. I imagine you have a strong and beautiful soul.

    I am going to wrap myself in neon and stand on a highway median! I must be seen!

  4. I feel glad, but strangely upset that I am getting to know you better now than I ever knew you in the 3 years we shared a city and classes together.

  5. I don’t want to be redundant since so many people have already told you how “beautifully written” this is, but those are the only accurate words that come to mind. I can’t imagine not having my mother as a consistent fixture in my life.

  6. Hi Michelle,

    This was very interesting to read. A good opening paragraph, that took me straight into the story, but also into my own world of memories. You probably know, I knew your mother. I tread carefully as I remember fondly that Cheshire cat smile, and her sense of fun. But I knew her as young woman, before the complexities of an older person set in, that we older people have, and bury, so we can move on.

    I know you father, and I have much admiration for his ways and his out look on life. He is a good man. I respect him for the way he stayed with his children. He took the hard road. Please all ways love him for that, please respect that he has integrity that many people don’t understand.

    I met my own father for the first time when I was fifteen, and he took me into his house and fed me and clothed me and took me off the streets. But he did not how to be father.
    There are many reasons for me not to like my father, for the loss of my childhood father, not having a role model, not having that person to talk to, to encourage me, to share my young life with.

    It took many years, but I understand my father, as one man understands another. But at 84, he now cries for what he lost. He now understands that the decisions he made are his, and nobody else’s.

    I can only hold his shoulder, as one man to another, not as a son to a father.

    I can now only say goodbye, for what has passed has passed. And the time for him to be my father ceased many years ago.

    I can now only look at this old man, and as one man to another, say goodbye.

    That is our fate.


  7. Pingback: 12-03-12 Love Lifestyle Weekly Showcase | Love All Blogs

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