It’s a classic exchange between an expectant parent and an acquaintance: “Do you know what you’re having?…Do you want a boy or a girl?” and we offer the refrain “As long as it’s healthy!”

…But what if they’re not?

In so many – if not almost all – of these circumstances, this conversation is harmless. It is a polite chat in which someone enquires about a baby, and you are excited to have that baby, and you don’t mind who or what they are – you just want the baby. And you want the best for that baby.

But what if they’re not healthy?

What if you don’t get the child that you hoped for?

Before you race on and rebut “How dare you say that, that we love all our kids, rah rah rah“, of course that’s true.

But seriously, what happens when your kid isn’t what you hoped for? To be precise, what if your child’s life isn’t the life that you hoped for them?

What if your parenting experience isn’t that one that you dreamed of, or seen modelled and broadcast by others?

What if your dear child is born sick. Or develops an illness. Or is diagnosed with a disability. Or whose brain isn’t wired like “normal” kids?

What if you don’t bond with your baby straight away. Or you aren’t delighted with the infant stage of parenting. Or if your child is naughty, unsociable, or “difficult”. What if your kid has to go and get tested, or finds school a challenge?

The short answer, and of course the most practical one, is that you just get on with it.
The kid you have is the kid you have.
The life you have is the life you have.

But maybe the short answer isn’t always the first one we should give ourselves, suppressing the pain and the questions that our heart is genuinely asking.

For I’ve been thinking about these questions a lot lately. Last week marked the last time we had to administer a twice daily anti-seizure medication to our three year old. He’s been on the medication for over 18 months, most of his life so far. We have not enjoyed it. It has been a blessing in many ways, that we had access to the medication that many around the world don’t have the privilege to. But in so many other ways, It’s an awful feeling and reality. I hate that he didn’t have a choice in the matter. I hate that his health condition (and treatment) may have affected his development. I am fearful of the unknown long term consequences of this period in his life.

I’m grateful that he is now well and can come off the meds. But having a sick child is awful. We have had several stints in the hospital with our boy, most via emergency ambulance. We have been lucky to go home after a few days. Yet many, many parents and their children aren’t that lucky.

I think about the young kids that spend their formative years in wards, spending weeks at a time in hospital. And the parents of those kids who want something different for them. It may indeed get better. But sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes the situation doesn’t change, and it will be a condition that will be ongoing for years, or a lifetime.

It is a massive shift in expectations of what you thought ‘it’ would be like.

I’m not speaking here as an expert in parenting, or parenting kids with diagnoses. Nor am I even flirting with the idea that children with ‘stuff’ can’t have full, incredible lives that so-called ‘normal’ kids assumedly have. Apart from the fact that there is no such thing as a normal kid, the very aspect of your child that you first view as a problem can actually be one of the best things about them and your relationship: Parenting is a ridiculous, rewarding experience. It is filled with joy and wonder at these humans that are yours.

But. It is also hard.
And some parents have to work harder at it than others.

I’ll say that again.

You might be a parent that has to work at it harder than others. Out of no fault of your – or their – own.

I just wanted to name that loving the ‘whole’ of your kids comes at a harder cost for some of us.

Our expectations of what they would be like, what you would be like, the type of schooling experience they’d have, the friendship circle they’d gather, how sociable they are, what interests they have, their anxiety or sensitivities – they may be different to what you imagined.

Different may be wonderful – But I think it’s ok to grieve that you thought it would be different, that you hoped it would be easier.

I think it’s ok to acknowledge that you might have had dark moments where you compare your own kids and say “I wish they’d be more like…”

I think it’s ok to acknowledge that there have been times where you look at other kids and long for the ‘ease’ of that parenting job.

Of course we don’t want to swap our kids. But there is power in the naming and the grace we give to ourselves in our fatigue and fear that it may not ‘get better’.

Our hopes, wishes and dreams for our children come from our deep desire for good for them. However, sometimes we perhaps don’t realise that when we project our own filters and definitions of “good” for them, it can be unhelpful (for us and them).

I’ve had a couple of scenarios in the last couple years where people have observed what my son has been ‘getting in to’ and voiced “thank God I don’t have to parent him” sentiments. They’ve been funny comments and in the context of love and appreciation of who he is etc etc, but there is a part of me that is a little bit sad about that too.

Because a) he is the best, dearest boy in the world and we love him and I’m so lucky to be his Mum and I will defend him till my dying day etc etc,
but b) it is hard and exhausting to parent him sometimes, and I am sad that people see that in him and label him accordingly,
and c) It triggers fears of what his life is going to look like moving forward.

Of course there may be a large part of unfounded and unproved anxiety in this mix, but is it ok to voice that the fear and frustration is there?

We’ve all been there, though, hey. We’ve all looked at our friends and thought “thank God my kid isn’t like that”. It makes us feel better about our own situations, which is not entirely unhelpful, but I think we are well served to remember that;

a) We all have our stuff. We don’t see the complete story of what that family, child, parenting is like. The grass is not always greener. All we need and should offer is empathy and solidarity to each other in it. Also,

b) My husband and I, all of us parents, have been given these children because we are who we are, and because they are who they are. If you come from a religious belief or not, even if you just lean into the genetic makeup of your children and yourself, you have been given each other to navigate the road ahead.

One of my dear friends said this of the “as long as it’s healthy…” conversation.;

Replacing the X I’m “as long as baby is X” (healthy, smart, social, “good at” sleeping, blah blah) with ‘loved’.
As long as baby is LOVED.

– Mandy. Wise as ever.

But if we break down what “loving” might mean or look like here… 

Accepting
Enjoying
Relating to
Supporting
Delighting in
Understanding 
Empathising
Advocating for

—-Our kids will require different proportions of these loving elements at times. And sometimes that will come easy, But sometimes it won’t. And I think it’s ok to acknowledge that.

Nature vs Nurture: Are we engineers or shepherds?

I spent a lot of time playing the computer game “Castle of the Winds” as a kid. It was one of those gloriously nerdy quest-based games where you collect weapons and search a castle and and cast spells and fight monsters. One of my favourite aspects was manipulating your hero’s variable characteristics, from strength, intelligence, constitution, and dexterity. If you were smart, you could learn spells easily, but that took away from your strength, which was needed to carry your pack and fight enemies.

I weirdly think about that game a lot as an adult, and wonder what my subconscious hopes of my children’s mix of characteristics have been – and if they are realistic or helpful.

This is not to say that we shouldn’t want better for our kids – Shan and I were talking about this the other day and he said your kids should be disappointing in some respect, because you should want better, the best for them – and in many ways, this is the role of parenting, that we guide our children into greater emotional, intellectual, physical, spiritual, social capacity. Of course we want the best for our offspring.

But our kids aren’t us. And they may need us to love them in a different way than how we see the world, different to how we interpret loving actions to be.

As much as we can trace our genetic inheritance from our parents and to our children, there is a role that nurture plays in this role. and I think it’s one of my most favourite things about the world.

I am a sociologist and so Shannon likes to pick fights with me all the time about the role of socialisation in society, that I don’t believe that gender exists, that we are taught everything ra ra ra, just to see me get riled up about it and defend the role of social learning. What I tell him every time, and what I remind my students, is that the glorious thing about nurture and nature is that there is a mystery to it. We still can’t pin point the exact combination or role that birth vs environment has in who we are; but what we do know, is that it is both, and they are in relationship with each other.

While previously the debate might have been one of ‘nature’ versus ‘nurture,’…The conversation has since shifted toward one of ‘nature’ and ‘nurture.’ Martschenko, 2020

So in my expert ‘opinion’, conflating and simplifying a mass of sociology and biology, there is a role of nurture and nature. It is a dance. Genes are subject to environmental factors, and our context is interpreted through the design of who we are as humans.

So what does this have to do with parenting and having trouble with the ‘bits’ of our kids that are difficult to navigate?

I think it is an encouragement that when you’re facing the challenges of parenting, or if you’re feeling failure of the parenting job that you’re supposed to be navigating, when the child you created isn’t living the life you hoped for them – that they are not blank slates for you to ‘win’ at engineering. Dr Russell Barkley has said that parents need to stop thinking themselves as engineers in parenting, who can ‘win or lose’ at the game, rather think of themselves as shepherds;

I am a shepherd to a unique individual. Shepherds are powerful people. They pick the pastures in which the sheep will graze, and nourish, and grow. They determine whether they are appropriately nourished, they determine whether they’re protected from harm. the environment is important, but it doesn’t design the sheep. No shepherd is going to turn a sheep into a dog.

– Dr Russell Barkely, 1997

We are given the task to provide the best context in which our children can grow. This is the practical environment they live in, but it is also the relationship that we develop with them, the relationships with others that we can encourage and facilitate, and the support that they may need for these to occur. This is a wonderful and often intimidating task. But we need to be cognisant that there is no such thing as a designer human – they do bring characteristics, genetics, designations that we will need to respond to, facilitate, and learn from, just as every parent/child relationship does.

We can take delight in our children’s characteristics, and see the heritage of us as parents or other family members in their makeup. Perhaps we are surprised at new and a-historical traits that they posses. Likewise, maybe there are aspects in their characteristics that we are triggered by, intimidated by, or frustrated by. Regardless of how they are made up, I think it may be freeing to recognise that we aren’t the winners or losers of an engineering competition; rather there is a interplay between who they are, who we are, and the story that we write for our families.

This post is not supposed to solve every parenting problem or frustration that we have. I wish it could. But I just wanted to share that I’ve had these thoughts, and have found it helpful to voice and allow myself to process them rather than just pretend they never existed.

It is hard to parent the [amazing, wonderful] kids we have sometimes.
And I want to offer solidarity to those of you who have sometimes, maybe felt the same.

Here’s to good shepherding. x

Barkley, [1997] 2022; Parents as Shepherds, not Engineers. The ADHD Report. Vol 30, No. 8

Have you ever been in a situation when you’re hearing something powerful, or learning a lesson, and thought to yourself; “I wish such and such were here to hear this!”

Or likewise, when you observe someone’s poor decision or reactions, and want to nail some truths to their door. Maybe we see relationships friends and loved ones are a part of, and we diagnose their issues quick smart.

Maybe it’s more personal than that. Maybe someone has hurt you, wronged you, judged you, written you off or excluded you, and you rehearse over and over the perfect speech to give them a piece of your mind, serving them home truths about what their actions have cost you.

Whether it is your parent, spouse, sibling, or friend, these situations vary in their context, content, or severity of stakes, but they really are all fuelled by the same goal:

We want other people to learn their lesson.

– me. circa 1983-present day

Perhaps we want them to see the pain they’ve caused us – or others.
Perhaps we want them to see how they are caught up in habits of self sabotage.
Perhaps we want them to extend compassion towards those they are dismissive of.
Perhaps we want them to realise their snobbery is unappealing and shallow.
Perhaps we want them to soften their hearts that have become brittle.
Perhaps we want them to know that there is better for them than the life they are currently leading.

No matter the lesson, we are often left in a state of angst – in frustration that we can’t change other people, in resentment that we need to accept people for who they are, or fear that their continued actions without change will result in significant negative consequences.

Because we’ve all been there. I think we’ve all spent time daydreaming and indulging the fantasy of the ‘speak my truth’ monologue conversation. When we see an ex-partner and tell them the thing that we wanted to say the whole of our relationship – (of course eloquently, accompanied with a stellar outfit). Or we give an awful employer a piece of our mind. Or we indulge the insistent need to tell that one person how we love them and feel about them, no matter the consequence.

“They need to know how I feel!”.

– Us

…But do they?

I was ruminating with my best mate about this topic and she asked me a pertinent question

When we have a hard truth – for someone else, who exactly does this ‘truth’ serve?

If we are honest with ourselves, it’s often us.

Is this truth, this lesson, going to make them feel better? Or you?

OOOF.

I think we are better served if we honestly ask ourselves what we want from the hard truth-conversation. My therapist queried me of this some years ago when I was discussing a prickly relationship in which I wanted to bring up an elephant in the room and offer hard truth.

“What do you want to happen in the conversation?”
I thought about it, and answered “I want them to do x, y and z”
“You’re probably not going to get that”, she replied, and so advised me to not bring up the topic in conversation.

Which is weird advice right? Aren’t all relationships built on total honesty and open communication?

Yes – and perhaps, no. Not in the way we often think about flagrant, raw truth. Relationships are built on trust, honesty, but most importantly, kindness and love in supporting one another. Sometimes, sometimes, we are given the opportunity – and here is the kicker, INVITED, to be brutal, hard truth tellers, but there may be lots of circumstances where it our ‘privilege to hold our tongue – even in service of the truth’ – my wise best mate again. We may serve the relationship by holding our tongue, when we realise that we serve the relationship by first working through our pain in another safer, healthy context or outlet, until it is time to speak the ‘truth’. We need to ask ourselves honestly, soberly, who is the lesson for? Who does the truth serve?

So here’s litmus test 1:

#1: Is the lesson for them – or us?

If the lesson is for us, perhaps we should learn it before we thrust it upon others.

---

So. we’ve successfully moved through litmus test number one: the lesson is definitely not for us, it’s for another person. We are satisfied that our truth and lesson is for the the recipient.

We then should ask ourselves if the lesson is for the other person to feel bad for what they’ve done to us, or if we are genuinely concerned for that person (which is really litmus test #1 again – is this their stuff, or is it my stuff?). We deflect and project from our own insecurities and rough spots far more than we like to admit.

Bill Johnson gives incredibly sage advice on this:

Don’t speak, just to give people a piece of your mind. Speak because you want to contribute to their well being. If you do that, you’ll know the difference between speaking truth in and of itself, and speaking truth in love.

Bill Johnson

We should speak truth because we want to contribute to their wellbeing.

Thus litmus test 2:

#2: Does the lesson contribute to their wellbeing?

If we want to speak truth to make someone else suffer, I would encourage us to sit with that reality for a bit and process that within a safe space. When we speak hard truths to loved ones, we want the outcome to build them up.

---

Having passed test 1 & 2, we then should also consider if it’s the right time to speak. Even if it’s true, and even if we genuinely feel like we should be sharing this information for another’s benefit, are they ready to hear it?

“Just because it’s true, are they ready to bear it?” – Best mate Katie. Again.

It can be a minefield.

I’m gonna repeat what I said earlier. Sometimes, sometimes, we are given the opportunity – and here is the kicker, INVITED, to be truth tellers, but there may be lots of circumstances where it our ‘privilege to hold out tongue – even in service of the truth’.

If someone we know is making bad decisions from a state of fear, trauma, pain, or grief, it is rarely helpful to confront someone, guns blazing, with our truth bombs. Compassion should always, always, always be prioritised over truth telling.

The annoying reality is that we don’t have monopoly of wisdom about our loved ones. We have blind spots, bias, prejudice, and a limited perspective about the lives of those around us, even if we are in close relationship to them. We may not (and often don’t) have the full story of their context, so we need to be very S. L. O. W. to tell people what they “NEED” to hear.

We serve ourselves and our loved ones well to ask questions and listen FIRST rather than speak anything from our ‘truth’ reserves. Discernment and reflexivity will always serve us. Thus we arrive at

Litmus test 3:

#3: Does their context shed light on our truth telling?

Building a context can shed light on people’s decisions, logics, responses, that we were previously ignorant of. It may change the truth you’re telling. Or the way you tell it. Or the timing.

---

So we come to the big leagues now. We’re three tests in. This lesson has proven itself. It’s not not about us, it is a truth that will serve our loved ones and neighbours, and it remains imperative even after understanding their context.

How do then we speak truth? Can we finally get around to teaching people lessons?

Not really. We need to acknowledge the fact that we can’t change people.

BUT

passivity is compliance, right?

surely, we must act, right?

….maybe.

The reality of life is that even if what you speak is true, if it is a correction, it will probably not be received well. I mean, who here easily welcomes a criticism of their spousal choices, or their perspective or values in life?

I remember being 14, and after my well meaning and wise father who was gently trying to teach me some hard-earned life truisms, yelling in his face in classic teenage angst; “LET ME LEARN MY OWN LESSONS!!!!” before slamming the door and barricading myself in my room.

People need to learn their own lessons.

It may not be the right time.

you may not be the right voice.

What I’m learning, is that it is far more common for us – and thus far more important for us not just to be sources of truth telling, but of homes of compassion and hospitality.

It may be heartbreaking, and frustrating, and withering, but when we have a truth for others to learn, they’re not going to want to hear it from us if we don’t offer them hospitality and compassion first.

If we’ve been wronged and hurt by their actions, this approach feels contradictory.

It feels so passive, ineffective, flaccid, weak. 

It is an affront to the anxiety about taking a stand and speaking truth to the moment. 

Compassion feels so quiet. 

Compassion feels like a cop out. 

Holding your space of hospitality feels wasted, like laying out a meal that your kids refuse to eat. But compassion is far more powerful than we give it credit for.

Compassion holds our hearts soft. 

It is painful. And feels isolating.

BUT Compassion is akin to hospitality. creating spaces for people to return to, to feel safe in.

I think about this stance so often when my heart breaks for lessons not learned, for loved ones that I desperately want better for. I think about this stance even when my truth doesn’t pass the litmus tests: when it is about the pain I’ve received and the desire I continue to hold for others to understand that pain. lessons can, and do get learned.

Hard conversations can and do take place. And they can be beautiful. And beneficial. But they are less frequent than we imagine. When they do take place, they are rarely immediate. Lessons usually require time to be truly heard. And most importantly, they need to take place in a [relational] safe space. Which means that you might have to wait. and you might have to hold your ground in integrity, in an openness to relationship, in hospitality – even if they’re closed off to you – because compassion and hospitality is the first step to lessons being learned. Be patient.

The wisest and most experienced people in my life are rarely the ones who offer hard truths – even though they are the ones most qualified to do so. I’ve watched them be accused and wronged by others, sometimes questioning why they don’t lash out and put people in their place. But watching them, the trait that is common to all is the compassion they offer first. The way they hold their ground, and patiently keep offering up opportunities for connection, conversation and hospitality. I want to be like that.

Biggest trick of truth telling: Hold the space. Hold integrity of relationship. And you might be given permission, or invited to speak your truth. It’s a better (and more successful) plan of attack. I promise.

Litmus test 4:

#4 Can you be patient? Hold the space for hospitality and compassion.

Here’s to truth telling – to the discerning, to the well being, to the asking, to the compassion.

xx

One of the best things that I’ve done in my life is see a therapist. She has been instrumental in helping me navigate significant trauma and unhelpful – even destructive – learned responses in my life, giving me tools of reflection, honesty and growth to navigate conflict and challenges.

Nevertheless, as much as this process has been helpful for me, I’ve been putting off making a renewed appointment with her for over two years now, largely because of the shame of what I would be seeking wisdom in – or to be more specific, because of what I would bring to the sessions – once more.

“Aren’t you done with this yet?” I taunt myself in my therapist’s voice.

“Haven’t you learned that lesson by now?”

Fake, Mean Therapist

The shame is real, friends. Surely at nearly 40 I am not struggling with the same things that I was when I was 15, 20, or 30?

In so many ways, of course, I am not. I have grown, I have matured. The challenges, dilemmas and anxieties at 15 are not those of 38, nor will they be of 45 or 60. But what is real, are common threads of how I respond to those evolving challenges.

What may be common, and same, is the specific triggers that bring anger, shame, jealousy, bitterness, resentment and shut down.

For example, I have written before of my wonderful excruciating journey of wanting to be capable. I don’t like trying new things because failing them would be the worst possible experience of life. So I don’t “put myself out there”, initiate, or assume responsibility because “If I don’t try, I can’t fail”.

It’s annoying. and painful. And I wish I was better. But here I am at almost 40 and I apparently haven’t solved the ‘problems’ of me yet!

Indeed, I have kept journals off and on most of my life. Looking back on them, many entries and prayers contain the frustration;

“Why, God, haven’t I learned this by now? WHY am I praying this same prayer? Why aren’t I ‘better’?”

My historical read of these entries is one of embarrassment and shame, tallying the lack of progress, the proof of my failure, the justification of critique of my personal, professional, and spiritual growth.

A weird thought occurred to me today though.

Instead of being embarrassed, what would a kind response to my repeated ‘failings’ look like?

What if I often struggle with these things not because I’m broken, but because I’m wired a certain way?

What if those failings – and identical failings are simply aspects of my humanity?

Please hear me, this is not a justification for ‘staying the same’. This is not me saying that my failings/errors/mistakes are “just me”. It is not your “boys will be boys-esq”, Kirsten will be Kirsten” excuse for ‘bad’ behaviour or for the absence of growth or effort.

Nor is it the denial that people can change and grow, that we can conquer certain traits that are destructive or unhelpful.

Rather, the truth is that I am human, and I will probably definitely need help navigating challenges in my life.

For example, in my own life, the truth is that I need help navigating fears of inadequacy and comparison.

The truth is that I need support to step back from anger and brittleness in the face of unfair responsibility.

The very sobering truth is that I may always need help to do so.

And the surprising question is – is that a bad thing?

Maybe the need to need help is just the reality of being a human.

I’ll say that again.

Maybe the need to need help is just the reality of being a human.

The way that I am wired, what I have experienced, and the various contexts that feed into my life have resulted in certain responses, triggers, failings and faults. And for the first time in my life I am considering the possibility that not only do I probably need help to counteract and breathe life into those spaces,

but maybe it is ok that I will need help – and continual, life-long help, to do so.

I can be empowered if I have a sober and measured understanding of myself. Because I can see what I am triggered by. I can see what my learned responses have been. I can notice if those responses are life giving or destructive. And amazingly, I can recognise when I need help – and I can seek it. That help may look and be different in different seasons of life. But I shouldn’t be ashamed to seek it.

I’ve been thinking of how people who live with alcoholism view their sobriety. Rather than being ‘cured’, alcoholism is seen as a condition that sufferers will negotiate their whole lives. In a journey of sobriety, an individual recognises situations that are more dangerous for them. They recognise what steps they need to protect themselves. The victors in this space aren’t ones who do it ‘on their own’, but are those who receive support to do so – usually for the rest of their lives.

Likewise, the process of naming or personifying a problem is used as a tool within narrative therapy to externalise and create some space between the person and the problem, which enables the person to begin to revise their relationship with the problem (Russell & Carey, 2004). Having the opportunity to revise the relationship we have with ourselves and our ‘issues’ may be one of the most powerful tools we can access.

If we take this journey of a sober understanding of ourselves into the world of spirituality, one of the fundamental premises of the Christian framework is that:

1. We are human – and fallible.
2. God is God.
3. We need God.
4. God is happy to help. And does so.

Those who profess faith are encouraged and exhorted to bring yourself to God. Expose yourself to him and he will bring it to light. There will be welcome. And shelter. And hospitality. And nourishment. And respite. And comfort. And courage. So we/I/many do.

The prodigal son is welcomed. The prostitute is given mercy. The weak are healed. The tax collector is forgiven. The annoying persistent appellant is granted justice. The denier is given a new name. The laughing and disbelieving – and old – father of none is given innumerous descendants. The prophet who runs away from responsibility – and is swallowed by a fish – is spat out and given grace.

There are countless stories of a God who meets our humanity with Grace, and is generous with it.

Likewise, there is a strong narrative in our culture that those who seek help can find it. Those who want better for themselves can receive it.

This is awesome. Until it’s not.

At its best, the narrative here is that when you seek help, you will receive it. We can claim victory over our past and engage in a new future.

At its worst, however, the narrative is that when you seek help, you can receive it – and “you WILL be better“. Translation: progress always [should] occur.

At its worst, this narrative argues that not only will you be “better”, but we tell ourselves – or judge others, that there is a limit to the help that we can ask for, and a minimum expectation of progress to be met when we do so.

We wonder if the prodigal son will still be accepted if he went out and spent the inheritance all over again. We wonder if the prostitute continued to ‘sin’, would she still find acceptance? We wonder if we are met with an eye roll and a sigh of exasperation when work up the courage to ask for support.

Here we suffer from a pathologising linear way of seeing the world. Regardless of a faith or secular framework, a danger of the western mindset is to assume a very strong relationship between Experience and Wisdom, between lessons learned and progress. 1 of X = 1 of Y:

What if 1 of experience does not equal 1 of ‘progress’?

We do not have much grace for others – or ourselves – when we ‘haven’t learned the lesson yet’ – or more important, not yet – again.

I have to say, I don’t really like that model anymore. Again – I’m not rejecting the premise of growth or learning in and of itself. We cannot justify bad behaviour or selfishness with a shallow dismissal of our faults. Nor am I arguing that people cannot change or transform for the better.

But maybe there’s a more helpful – and healthier – way of engaging with our supposed failings. It is a circular model of growth, a circular model of seeking help.

Returning to a premise of seeking help from a faith perspective, let us revisit & add to our steps:

1. We are human – and thus fallible.
2. God is God.
3. We need God.
4. God is happy to help. And does so.
   Here, however are the often-forgotten aspects:
5. We will always need God – because we are human.
6. God is always happy to help. And does so.

We read in the scriptures a God who is not only happy to help, but does not tire of doing so.

read that again.

We read in the scriptures a God who is not only happy to help, but does not tire of doing so.

We read in the scriptures the invitation to expose ourselves to God -and find welcome and grace and mercy in that moment. Part of that welcome may also include an invitation to choose better and be wise – but the help will always be there to do so.

Never is that invitation rescinded. Not if you ask once, twice, or 1000 times.

The glorious picture of a feast that is told and offered in scripture is one of welcome, hospitality and sustenance; “Come, all you who are thirsty, come to the waters; and you who have no money, come, buy and eat! Come, buy wine and milk without money and without cost”…

When I read this verse I like to picture the table that is set at the end of the world in C.S Lewis’ Voyage of the Dawn Treader – a sumptuous table, renewed daily, covered in dishes a plenty. There is welcome and respite for all.

May I suggest a caveat here. Perhaps not only is there a spot at the table for everyone, but the sustenance/respite/grace may look or manifest a little differently for those of us around the table. The help we need – the ‘food’ that is required’ may differ from person to person. If you’re old enough to know Sizzler, have that smorgasbord in mind. All the food’s good – but some people need a heck of a lot of steak, others, need those veggies, but others are filled by the parmesan bread alone.

I’ll stop with the analogies here.

But the truth remains.

Some people need to hear more reassurance at times. Others need to hear more forgiveness. Others need courage. Others need to hear approval. Still others need to feel respite. Some might need all of it.

And that’s ok.

It is unhelpful to berate ourselves for being human.

It is unhelpful to pile guilt and shame on ourselves for having tendencies or triggers.

We may and do always require help with our limitations and humanity. And that may actually be ok.

Whatever stops us from seeking help is a bad thing. Even if it is ourselves.

I had a wonderful conversation with a friend about this issue and the journey we have of healing and growth; she had this to say:

Like anyone I’m a weird mix of personality traits, life experience, & frankly, the luck of the draw in terms of the era I was born into & the opportunities I have. I’ll always have big emotions that one could attach labels to. But why?? Why pathologise me? I’ll always have some things which are, to speak the language, trauma triggers. And that’s ok. That’s just part of my humanity.
And frankly, it’s part of my redemption too.

There is a great deal of power we receive in a sober recognition of what we often need help in. As much as it is painful, I can be proactive in those moments and reach for help early. I can offer grace to myself that these responses are deeply ingrained and they sometimes require lots of unpicking. I can remind myself of the help that is available, of the promises of welcome and acceptance on offer; and I can model that hospitality to others so that other people can experience that welcome too.

Maybe my humanity can be part of my redemption, too. x

It’s been over 10 years since I began this blog, this little space where I write a bit and some of you are gracious to read a bit too.

Many times over the past years I have cringed at the title, and contemplated changing its name simply to Kirsten Macaitis – pockets being a juvenile, unimportant aspect of life, right? But rather than embarrassment, I’ve now come around to a re-love of the title and concept. My first post ever featured pockets and how things are so much better with them. But I’m even more convinced that we as people are all better for having them. Indulge me here:

We find refuge & respite in pockets: pockets are places to hide, places to put our hands when we feel awkward and unsure; pockets of shade from the harsh sun, or pockets of sunshine that break out from clouds or grey, all provide spaces where we can rest a little while.

We can put and find resource in pockets: tools, aid and skills that assist us in our journeys.

Bilbo Baggins would vouch for the power of something put in his pocket (Tolkien Reference alert). Don’t even get me started on the long history of patriarchal prejudice that is demonstrated through the deliberate lack of pockets in women’s clothing – that might be for another blog.

So let me say again -or even for the first time- this space is to provide pockets of refuge, respite, and reflection – where we can find safety in the collective acknowledgement that
“It’s not just me – maybe it’s you too!”,
where we can see parts of ourselves that we are proud of, that we need to work on, aspects which have been hard won, reluctantly inherited, or much earned.

Here are opportunities for us to acknowledge pain and fear – and the most important part – to learn what it is to be kind with ourselves and each other in that confession.

Thanks for coming along the ride with me, friends. I’m grateful that you stopped by.

What a comforting thought, God.

That the want for righteousness is seen – is recognised – and is granted sustenance.

I say this because we can look at the righteous – the ‘good’ people in this world, the ones who have ‘arrived’ at a state of righteousness – and think they are the [only] ones who are recognised.

But it says those who hunger and thirst for righteousness will be filled – which is wonderful. Because it means that “those who are pursuing righteousness” – those that have a cause or active path of righteousness – “we’re not there yet, but we’re on our way” are seen here.

You are seen in your attempt and pursuit of the righteous things in this life.

Imperfect offerings are the things of God

But what if you don’t have a “cause”?

I would argue that you’re still part of the team.

The want for righteousness is seen here – but more so, maybe the want for a want for righteousness is seen too. If you’re overwhelmed, exhausted, intimidated, hurt, fearful, lacking in confidence or energy to do anything but survive- the hunger and thirst for things to be righteous – are still the things of God. Likewise, then, so is the compassion and recognition that we receive in the want – and in the want for a want.

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.

Indeed. Cheers, Jesus.

“You’re so strong!”

“You’re so resilient!”

Have you ever been the recipient of these tidings? Or been the one who utters them?

“No one else could deal with what you’ve been through!”

In so many ways, to tell someone they’re strong is one of the highest compliments we can give –

“Hey you – congratulations on navigating
[this often crappy] life so well!”

– people

It’s a symbol of recognition and admiration – you’ve come out and through the other side of something challenging and difficult to navigate. So we celebrate and see you for that achievement. It’s a compliment unhindered by age, gender, class, race – an aspect of humanity that we champion and commend.

But the thing is – as much as the compliment is so lovingly uttered – and in most cases – lovingly received, the ‘silence’ of this statement – and the reason why we give the compliment in the first place – is because someone’s life has been awful. There has been a significant, long term, debilitating challenge that they have had to be strong for – and for many people, it is multiple somethings.

So sometimes – as much as the statement is meant to be heard at its best as “I love you! I see you in this moment!” – what I have heard is “Look how crap your life is – and well done on being strong despite that” – to which my response is usually “I kinda had to”.

I was chatting to a girlfriend today about this exact thing. She and her husband have navigated significant challenges for their family, many of which us “lucky ones” will never have to contemplate – and they’ve done it with grace and good humour – it has been a sight to see, to be honest. My hat goes off to them. I’ve often told her (or at least I hope I have) how amazing/strong/resilient she is.

But does she actually need to hear that so often? Is it helpful?

I myself have been through a number of significant traumas in my life and people have told me many times at how strong I am. I love them for it in so many ways – I do feel seen. And there is a fair amount of pride in me that I can and do show resilience in the face of trial.

But if I’m brutally honest, friends –

sometimes

I’d prefer not to be.

I’d like it if I didn’t need to be strong.

I’d like it if the muscles of resilience and ‘coping’ weren’t so exercised.

It’s pretty tiring, hey.

It can make you be cynical about things to come when you expect to have to cope with “what’s next”,

it can make you unreasonably triggered in situations/emotions/contexts that feel similar- or adjacent – to situations you’ve experienced,

and the ‘strength’ can also come with a side of anger, trauma, scars, distrust, anxiety, depression, jealousy and exhaustion (just to name a few).

I’d much prefer my life to be awesome and struggle-free.

Obviously good counselling, therapy, medical care and healthy relationships all have a vital place for those of us who have been through ‘stuff’, and I am of course grateful for the lessons i’ve learned about myself along the way – mostly I’m grateful for the solidarity I can offer when people are stuck in the mire.

But again – if I could trade those character lessons and not have to have lost what I have? – not even a thought.

I would exchange it in a heartbeat. Happy to return the goods to sender.

I would rather not have to be so resilient.

The loss of what was, the grief of what could have been: it’s a long term, heavy price to pay for that bit of character development.

This is an exercise in honesty rather than criticism – I hope I’m not coming across as hypersensitive or censorious –

But I wanted to offer the solidarity for those in the mire – or those who remember the mire like it was yesterday – perhaps the option to not only feel complemented that you’re strong – but instead the freedom to also recognise the grief and trauma that leaves it mark.

The two things can be true at once.

So Friends – if this is you –

I’m sorry that you’ve had to be strong.

I’m sorry that your resilience was so hard fought.

I’m sorry that your wisdom came at such a high price.

I’m sorry that you didn’t have a choice in the matter.

and finally – It’s ok if you don’t feel strong sometimes.

We can be grateful for the lessons but also sad that they were so hard to learn.

Perhaps the gift we can give ourselves and each other is to permission – and practice – space for both sides of the story to exist.

x

So in light of this: here’s my greeting: I spent the beginning of the year feeling guilty. Guilty about putting my one year old into childcare – and not one, but two days a week. He’s also with my in-laws another day per week which gives me 3 whole days a week where I’m being a terrible mother guys. I’m not home with him (enough) thus I’m making a bad choice and also setting a bad foundation for his early start. Anyone want to judge me? Go ahead. I deserve it. That has been my ick.

OF course I can understand from a logical standpoint that this isn’t the case, of course. This post is not about debating the merits and strengths of being a working or stay at home mum. Both are valid and necessary for different people and in different contexts.

But I still feel guilty. It’s uncomfortable. And the worst thing is I can’t do anything to alleviate or solve the problem. because the situation is probably not going to change any time soon. I hate it.

Anyone with me? I hate it when I can’t solve a problem straight away. No thankyou.

But here’s the rub.

Even if I could solve the problem,

solving the problem doesn’t solve the problem….

…of how I feel about myself.

Our attempts at alleviating the issues we deal with is perhaps not the thing we need to do first.

There will always be things to feel angry, anxious, fearful, apathetic, guilty, ashamed of. And likewise, there may be many different ways to change our situation. But they’re probably not quick fixes.

One of the most important – perhaps the most important things we need to do with our

anger
anxiety
fear
apathy
guilt
shame
ick,

all of it,

is to greet it.

Speak its name.

It is as simple, and as hard, as that.

Our ick doesn’t get more powerful in the acknowledgement: rather, the opposite occurs. When we greet our ick, it materialises in a more helpful form, as we as people can appreciate its limits, its core, of what it is, and what it is not.

There’s a scene in one of the Harry Potter books where students are taught a spell to hold off a powerful enemy who feeds off their fear: Students were asked to acknowledge what they feared the most, and through it, were given the power to make that fear ridiculous, dispelling its might.

Research is growing around the real impact that naming emotions can have. Not only can it help in down-regulating emotions (Kircanski, Lieberman& Craske, 2012), but it has a consistent and positive effect on health and psychological states (Frattaroli, 2006). In children, emotion regulation is a major asset in helping them navigate inevitable stressors (see great article here by Chowdhury, 2021 on definitions and strategies on emotion regulation in children and adults). These studies affirm what I have seen in my own life: when we have language and a framework – and we are given opportunities to use them – it not only enables us to grasp our present realties with greater clarity, but it gives us the power to imagine the what-is-next.

The challenge, thus is twofold. In the ick, greet it. This is helpful and healthy and NEEDED and entirely valid.

The second part is perhaps even harder: allowing the ick to be witnessed. This can be a terrifying prospect. We feel stupid and vulnerable and weak in the acknowledgement. But not only does it increase the opportunity of someone sharing your pain, but the opportunity for solidarity with others can be one of the greatest gifts we ever receive – or give.

Thus lastly, If you are have the privilege of witnessing someone’s ick, our first impulse cannot be to fix it – if we are in the mire, a front-forward solution approach can actually feel like a dismissal or a smothering – despite the good intentions of you as friend/parent/sibling/spouse. This is not to say that there is never the time to move towards solution, but this cannot be our first impulse. It is unhelpful. Timing is everything. Instead, I would invite you to first, give someone the gift and space of a quiet witness.

Greet the ick, friends. The honesty may grant a – even brief – respite in return.

xx

• Chowdhury, M.R. (2021) What is Emotion Regulation? + 6 Emotional Skills and Strategies. PositivePsychology.Com. https://positivepsychology.com/emotion-regulation/ accessed 18 May 2021
• Frattaroli, J. (2006). Experimental disclosure and its moderators: A meta-analysis. Psychological Bulletin, 132(6), 823–865. https://doi.org/10.1037/0033-2909.132.6.823
• Kircanski, K., Lieberman, M. D., & Craske, M. G. (2012). Feelings into words: contributions of language to exposure therapy. Psychological science, 23(10), 1086–1091. https://doi.org/10.1177/0956797612443830