Surrendering: A Painful Act of Love
BY LEESHA MONY
Photo Courtesy | Leesha Mony
It was a cool and peaceful day. We moved with ease and openness as we made our way down the ravine near our new home. The breeze carried a playfulness that had returned after a long season. Finally, after making a big move, we were able to not only explore our surroundings but also try and connect to one another. We were all wide-eyed and eager for discovery, yet I had no idea what was in store for me.
I looked over my left shoulder, gazing into the creek, lost in all its movement and beauty. I was tracking the way the sun was hitting the water as it glimmered and exposed itself in a way that awed me, when I suddenly noticed my son's movement in my peripheral vision. The information that my body was taking in was that he was about to make his way over a log, which happened to be big and slippery. Instinctively, my right arm jolted to him to offer a hand and what I thought was needed assistance. As quickly as my arm greeted his, his eyes told me he had a different idea. He looked up sternly but softly and shook his head from side to side. He was expressing his no. He followed his body through the movements that it was doing, the movement which heightened not only my awareness but caused my breath to stop and my limbs to tighten. He was telling me of his confidence, his eagerness to make a new move, just like we all recently did. His eyes were asking me to trust him in a moment I was unprepared for, yet I could not look away. He made it quite graciously with doubt absent from his body, but at that moment, my body hardened as I froze in time, becoming stiff with all of the information that was entering me.
I like to think I paused, but I really froze in amazement and shock.
I paused (froze) – not because I did not think he could do it or because I was upset that he was pulling away – because I had to take in everything I had just learned, and it felt like a lot. As I began to take back my shape and breathe, I realized I wasn't expecting a lesson on letting go and trusting as I stared off into the magical water weaving through the rocks, but I guess I should have known better. These days in motherhood, there seem to be lessons everywhere.
It is no surprise that a part of motherhood calls for us to let go, release, surrender, and trust ourselves, our child, and the world (as much as we can). The number of times we as parents have to let go is many; it goes on and on and never stops, or so I hear. Even when knowing this, the shock and disorientation that follows often gets left out of the stories. The first time I remember really experiencing the magnitude of feelings was when my son was a few months old, and I needed to transition back to work. My work was part-time, and even though I was leaving him with my loving family, it still somehow shattered me. Releasing my hands, walking away, and separating myself for a few hours was excruciating. The panic that my body endured was unlike any other. Rapid thoughts invaded with all that could go wrong, my stomach clenched, my body filled with guilt, and my heart solidified as I ebbed and flowed through what felt like a lifetime of a transition, even though it was only a few weeks. Eventually, it became easier and easier as we both began to realize that we would soon be reunited. In truth, having some time to use other parts of my brain, reconnect with myself, and rely on others' help, was really lovely. Making the decision and moving into action was incredibly strenuous, but somehow we did it, just in time to do it again in another form.
The practice of letting go continued in full force as we navigated sleeping arrangements, ending breastfeeding, and deciding on whether to enroll him in daycare or not. I have come to realize that the list of all the ways we must relinquish control is endless and that somehow part of my work as his mother is to let go. Even though I know this, I become more blown away with each passing phase and embedded with lessons.
At the creek that day, his eyes told me of his readiness as his body spoke with clarity, confidence, and full trust. As he reflected to me his ability and independence, I couldn't help but feel a deep warmth of pride and tender sadness. We were embarking on what felt like a change in dynamic.
When faced with every new milestone, I am beginning to realize that so much of me is often full of joy and amazement, while other parts of me weep for time passing, moments missed, and future changes which are always just around the corner, or in my case, just inside my peripheral. The pride I felt when he made it over the log was great, but the awe I experienced when he confidently trusted himself was beyond what I could have imagined.
What became known to me was that being able to witness these moments is not always possible. Sometimes my body's immediate response is too much, too hovering, and too quick to take in what is happening. Sometimes I override his confidence with my anxiety (even though I am working on it). Sometimes I am honestly looking away or disengaged, trying to catch a moment of my thoughts. Sometimes I am too overwhelmed, and the pause becomes more difficult to will.
And sometimes, I witness it all. It is impossible to catch all of the shifts, changes, and growth, even though I have a deep wish that I could and, in fact, feel quite guilty when I don't. Lately, I have been learning to forgive myself for the missed moments, for the realities of life can be quite alluring. Lately, I have been learning to forgive myself when I miss his signals to trust him. And lately, I have been learning to forgive myself for overriding his confidence with my old friend, Fear.
One of my biggest takeaways from parenting so far is that, in truth, my son and I are learning together. Learning how to trust, learning how to let go and tap into confidence and security. Learning how to separate and come back together and learning how to be ourselves during what feels like shifts of no return.
The reality is, when he needs my hand, he knows how to ask for it (and hopefully, I am present enough to hear). Just as he evolves and changes, I also get to continue evolving and changing as his mother.
LEESHA MONY is a mother, writer, and somatic therapist who recently arrived to Seattle, WA from the Bay Area. Leesha specializes in perinatal mental health and supports survivors navigating the intersectionality of trauma and birth. For Leesha, writing has always served as a way to more deeply explore and understand her world, and the worlds of others, while also mending past wounds. Leesha’s writing holds the intentions to try and give voice to the often unnamed experiences that mothers navigate, in hopes that other people will find pieces of themselves and their truths reflected in her words.