Hanging over like a side-swept umbrella is a mimosa tree, its blooms as soft and feathery as something you’d want to nuzzle your entire face into. The silky softness of the bloom, with its hundreds of delicate hairs, also smells like the sweetest flower in the botanical garden. Two of them, somewhere between 3’ and 4’, are coming in the mail—one for each side of the far edge of the pool.
In the underbelly of my mind, insidious bacteria stir. In moments of frustration and anger, they bubble up; in fear, they rise, and they scare. I’m not a good person. It’s all an act. You’ve tricked everyone.
Like that spot in the back’s dead center, I can’t reach them. I spin in circles, chasing their pot at the end of the rainbow, but I keep driving on and on. I feel the heaviness in my nostrils, where my eyes meet. It’s here. I look down, bracing for their hit. But I’m not a victim. I’m just listening—a captive audience, not doing a damn thing about it.
I hate myself in those moments. The helpless me who doesn’t speak up, doesn’t say, “Hang on a second, that’s not a fair characterization. You’re too harsh.” But I don’t. And because I don’t, it continues.
I don’t know what I want—except to lighten the load.
For some reason, the show Couple’s Therapy, even the ten minutes I watched earlier, soothed me. The therapist was so attuned—quiet, patient, and curious with her couples. The history in the dynamic, the emotional revelations, the not having to be in the driver’s seat. I get to watch. To be entertained, to relate, to learn something about how I want to be.
I’d like to slow down instead of speed up. To tune in instead of out. To believe people. To not feel so on the spot. To settle.
Earlier, when Evelyn started bawling because she didn’t like the coconut smoothie I made—the one I’d made for myself, but she wanted to taste and then have some—it felt unfair. All I wanted was for it to be an enjoyable snack. But then I’m dealing with Evelyn’s emotions. I’m trying to help her find something she actually wants, and the feeling I’m carrying is so strong I’m almost checked out. I just can’t. Then I get short in my tone, and I’m not what she needs. Whatever I needed, that little moment of quiet pleasure, is gone.
That snowball of emotion, I need to be careful with. In those moments, I’m a little girl, swallowed up by a houseful of tumultuous chaos, and I shrink into a crack in the ceiling. I change the script when I deal with that emotion in an intentional and caring way: I take a break. I step away, sidestep, genuinely calm myself.
And then I reset my nervous system. And I can be the person I want to be.
When I pause, breathe, and reset, I’m not just healing myself—I’m giving Evelyn the gift of a parent who’s learning to respond with care and grace.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 