At bedtime, using the Google speaker in her bedroom, Evelyn broadcasts into the house. From the living room, I hear the chime, then the British AI voice announces: “It’s from Evelyn’s bedroom speaker.” A moment later, Evelyn’s own voice follows: “Is it Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, or Saturday?”
Dave answers back with the day, and as he does, I get the sinking suspicion she’s counting the number of sleeps until her next horse riding lesson.
This past Monday, Aubrey taught her how to tug the reins to guide Betsy’s head and helped her place her feet in the stirrups of a hunter saddle. I’ve always loved horses, and my secret fear was that I was pulling Evelyn along into my dream instead of hers.
But the fact that every single day she asks how many days are left — even when it’s the day after and six long sleeps remain — tells me she really might be enjoying herself.
The look on her face sealed it for me: that sly, closed-mouth grin of pride when her right-hand tug led Betsy’s head and body to follow instantly. My whole body lit up with it. That invisible parental cord — the one tethered to every success and stumble of your child — buzzed with joy, like we’d just hit the bullseye.
Tonight I almost gave up on writing. Excuses filled my head. The resistance was strong. It’s not a new voice, either — it always whispers the same lines: You have nothing to say. No one cares. Not even you. What are you doing here? Sometimes it’s aggressive, almost bullying. Other times it just feels… right. Maybe you’re right, I think. Maybe I should stop.
So I try turning my own counseling tools back on myself. I think of the client who feared they were a bully, only to discover that beneath their sharpness lived a softer, more vulnerable part — a rabbit-like self, sensitive and scared, locked away. What if my resistance is like that? A stunted, sad, unseen part of me that doesn’t know how else to ask for care.
I didn’t do well in English. Or, I did well enough. But early high school grammar lessons snuffed out any spark of passion. My teacher is a blank in my memory — someone clocking in for a paycheck, uninterested in drawing us in. English was boring. The one bright spot was another teacher who had us do stream-of-consciousness writing. I swooned. But otherwise, English kind of sucked.
I wish I’d had more support, teachers as alive and passionate as Mr. Patrick in Honors Geology or Mr. Denning in Sociology. Maybe when resistance rears up again, I can open a page of Bird by Bird, or some other writer’s wisdom, and let their voice be the mentor I never had. That feels good. I think I’ll try that.
I hope you had a lovely day.
Take care.
Love,
Jaclynn
Going On 40 