My daughter calls herself a miniature version of me. She beams whenever someone tells her she looks just like me and says, “I amghter.” She notes all the ways she is and continues to become like her mother, from every shared interest to every aspiration. In most iterations of her adult life, she wants to be like her mom. It makes me smile. It reminds me that I am doing this parenting thing well. I mean, any respectable Black girl must be well-versed in the Michael Jackson chorus and understand the difference between Black households and white people’s shit. Raising her has truly become a responsibility I take on with pride, and watching her adopt my love of different hobbies, television, and other things soothes something deep in me. She is so much like me, but she also isn’t.
When you become a parent, no one warns you that your child will challenge your personal beliefs and upbringing. And in the age of “gentle parenting” where discipline is not synonymous with violence, and you encourage your child to ask questions, to push back logically against oppressive authority, and exercise autonomy, raising a free Black child can feel like putting a gun in an eleven-year-old’s hands, aimed at you and ready to pull the trigger. My daughter is so much like me, but she is also everything I wish I were, and sometimes I have to struggle to be. She is outspoken, brutally honest (we are working on the brutal part), vulnerable, sensitive, and unabashedly shameless about the things she loves. Most importantly, though, she is loaded with an intuition that has yet to be beaten down by a world that thinks it knows better for her than she knows for herself, and if left entirely to me, it never will.
They say children always know. If a child does not like someone, trust it! When given a safe space to exercise choice and listen to their own voices, children have an innate sense of danger. They are not jaded by adults’ ideals and politics that insist they perform niceties, even at their own expense. They will deny the hug, cry whenever necessary, say no as a full sentence, and mean it. Children disregard respectability and performances as long as no one teaches them otherwise. Unfortunately, most adults will teach them otherwise; it’s the way we’ve been taught, conditioned, and traumatized to think.
I don’t remember when it happened to me. I can’t recall when I started doubting myself and needing other people’s opinions on situations. I can’t pinpoint when I started letting people be exceptions to what I thought were my rules in an effort to prove myself wrong, no matter how unsettled my body was. But it happened. The shift where fitting in became more important than standing out. The transition from just letting my gut guide me to ignoring it. Somewhere along the way, I learned not to ruffle feathers, to silence myself for peace that wasn’t my own, and to give others the benefit of the doubt, even if it was outweighed by every doubt I felt deep in my bones. But being a parent (and going to therapy) forces you to confront the uncomfortable things. Suddenly, you are face-to-face with a miniature version of yourself, full of whimsy and self-confidence, telling you their truth and feelings with absolute certainty. You are forced to reevaluate everything you thought you knew about yourself. Diving into every decision and holding yourself accountable for the role you’ve played in all of the unfavorable things—for those of us willing to do the work.
In truth, there are some moments in my life when I can recall thinking and feeling, “this shit is about to go all wrong.” Whether for the plot or because I could not trust myself, I did the silly thing anyway. There are plenty of bad decisions I look back on and know I shouldn’t have made. My body and my intuition were disconnected from the logic I pieced together in my head to proceed. And sadly, I know so many people around me who say the same. “Something told me not to do it, but I didn’t listen.” There are far too many moments when I didn’t listen. Too many times to count, ignoring that nagging thought or feeling telling me to stop. Now, I’m starting to think the regret I feel afterward is my intuition rebelling against me. The ruminating isn’t because it went bad, but because I betrayed myself to get there.
Unfortunate events happen. They are a part of living. However, I seldom feel guilty when I enter a situation at peace with myself. It is simple to detach the outcome from the action. I did the best I could, I felt good, and that’s all there is to it. But when I am unsettled, well before the start, I am a train wreck of shoulda, coulda, woulda. Upset, crashing, and cursing myself out because I really could’ve just stayed home, not done this. I sit in a loop of blaming myself for once again disregarding that gut feeling that wants nothing more than my protection. Betraying yourself isn’t easy to forgive, and the consequences of that choice are even harder to forget. The heartbreaks, the losses, the pain, they travel with you long after the decision is made. They haunt you with every new choice that arises. It gets harder and harder to trust that you know what’s best for yourself when your track record says otherwise. I envy my daughter for that. But I am also trying to reconcile that envy with action. I’ve been working on trusting myself again.
I’ve been listening to my body to distinguish discomfort from discernment; taking her cues and acting on them. With every choice, I sit with the options, evaluating where they rest and what feelings they evoke.
I am trying to rebuild credibility with myself; seeking less input and validation from external sources. Making decisions I feel good about, even if the outcome isn’t what I hope for.
I am trying to set aside shame; working on forgiveness and learning from the past instead of ruminating on it.
It’s all so fucking hard. I am exhausted by it. But it is a responsibility I am taking on with pride. If I can raise my daughter to do it, why can’t I?
LeChell Rush 