“Mama, I want you to be quiet. I need it to be peaceful over here.”
Evelyn joined Dave and me in the hammocks—three straps cinched around a single tree, each stretching out to its own trunk, like spokes from a center. There’s enough room for us to swing gently in our own directions, but as you can see, conversation is a disturbance.
What I was trying to say before she hushed me is this:
I carry a self-imposed responsibility to maintain relationships.
It’s on me.
And lately, my quiet refusal of this chore has started to curdle into guilt.
That guilt simmers into resentment, and then bubbles up in my tone with Dave and Evelyn.
It’s like I believe I can’t be missed.
That I must stay engaged, no matter what.
And if I don’t? I’m failing them.
Not me—them.
Even though no one asked me to hold this role.
I assigned it to myself.
Maybe that’s not entirely true.
When I think about childhood, I remember how my mom’s mood spilled through the cracks of every closed door—her emotions so large they filled the whole house. I walked on eggshells. Because tripping her wire meant a tone, a glare, a carefully placed remark meant to wound. A sigh that said you’re part of the problem. Her life was hard, and she needed you to know it.
So I was good. Quiet.
Remarkably adept at the look and listen.
I watched how heavily she stepped.
I counted how often my brother’s name came out of her mouth.
I studied her as if the quiz was coming at any moment.
Do all kids do this?
Have this psychic umbilical cord?
Ready to plug in, scan for danger, and adjust accordingly?
I’m still monitoring.
The tight wire in my chest pulls taut when I think of friends, family, and clients. I scan—subtly, constantly—taking stock of how they’re doing, what they might need, what I should be offering. And with each scan comes a ping of guilt. What I haven’t said. What I haven’t done. How I’m failing them.
There’s no alarm going off, no one asking me to jump in—but my body moves as if there is. As if the quiet itself is an emergency. As if someone, somewhere, is disappointed, and I’m already too late.
If that wire loosened—if I stopped scanning—I think I’d feel something like freedom.
Freedom to wonder what I need. To ask myself what I actually want, not what’s expected. Space to breathe, to wander a bit. Maybe even space to be a little boring, or inconsistent, or unsure. To make a decision and change my mind. To be soft.
There’s so much of me wrapped up in holding the net for everyone else that I don’t always know who I am outside of that role. But I’d like to find out. Not in a dramatic way. Not in a run-away-and-start-over way. But in the small, daily moments. In saying no when I mean it. In not replying right away. In making something beautiful just because it feels good. In being responsible for me first.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 