“Alice, you’re your own worst enemy.”
“But Mom, they’re all smarter than me.”
“You think too much.”
“What else am I supposed to do? Doesn’t everyone think all the time?”
“Not as much as you, honey.”
“Well, I’m still not going to try out for the debate team.”
“All your friends will be there. You might have fun.”
“I tried out for the tumbling team and not only did I not make it, I was the laughing stock of the whole school.”
“Alice, you were not the laughing stock of the whole school. Just two mean girls. Anyway, that was when you were in third grade. You’re in
high school now.”
“I still remember what it felt like.”
Over the years I have been at the kitchen table with each of my sons, beseeching them to feel better about who they were or to take a chance
at a new sport.
I try to explain away comments made by soccer coaches that were volunteers and untrained, bullies that they wouldn’t even recognize
today, teachers that were forced to retire.
Always to no avail.
We get stuck trying to prove to these shadows from the past that we are good enough, smart enough, tough enough, dragging this heavy
burden, not seeing that the key to unlock this ball and chain is on our belt. If only we would use it.