I’d hold the mothers
About a week ago, as my sister and I drove to the hospital, she shared with me that when she retires, she would like to volunteer to hold babies in the NICU.
For her, visiting our father in the hospital has been a reminder of when her baby was born premature, and placed in the NICU.
Just two days after giving birth to my niece, my sister had to drive to the hospital during three days to visit her newborn baby. And 15 years later, one of the memories that stands out to her the most, is of the women who volunteered to hold all of those newborn babies whose parents couldn't stay the night with them.
I realize that these times of great suffering and great love all at once–like the one that my family is experiencing at the moment–can connect us so clearly to the stories of our lives that remind us of our shared humanity.
As I listened to my sister, I felt the utter beauty of how much it meant to her to know that these women were holding her first, sweet newborn baby for her.
And as I sat with this story, words from my heart came out of my mouth before I could even think much about them.
“I’d love to hold the mothers,” I said to her.
The mothers of those babies in the NICU. The ones who so badly wanted to be holding their babies but couldn't. Mothers whose worlds has stopped entirely, while life went on buzzing all around them.
I would want to join them right where their world had stopped, and say "I’ll stop with you." To say, "It’s okay to fall apart. I've got you."
My dad’s world stopped for a minute on December 22nd last year. A stubborn cold turned into pneumonia, and even though he was admitted to the hospital, we were confident about a quick recovery.
Unfortunately, a few days later, all of our worlds came to an entire halt when he didn’t respond to treatment, and he was admitted to the ICU.
And there we were, every day, doing our best to let him know that there is nothing that matters more to us than being by his side. Making sure that he did not spend a minute of this alone.
You see, if the healing and love that I have received over the years has taught me one thing, it is this: That learning how to really be with others in their moments of great suffering, is the most important thing that we can do.
We practice this with our children, and we fail. And we keep trying. Because we know that moments of deep connection happen when we see and meet them in their greatest joy, and hold them through their deepest pain.
Learning how to give such seeing and holding to each other–and to do it well–is not easy. In fact, it is really hard for most of us.
And it is especially hard to learn to fully receive it. But we need it nonetheless.
Just because many of us didn’t get to practice receiving abundant care in our moments of pain throughout our lives, doesn’t mean that we ever stopped needing it.
Or that those who should have given it to us, didn’t need it as well.
I wish all of our mothers had been seen in their joy and held in their pain.
I wish my grandmother had been held so that she, in turn, could hold my dad in the way he needed; so that maybe he could have known earlier, how to align his actions with the fierce love he felt for us.
So that instead of the distance that filled the space where the connection we yearned for should have been; he could have been close to me through the challenging years of my adolescence and early adulthood.
But the truth is, we lived those years with quite a bit of distance between us.
And the truth is, also, that my dad didn’t let that distant relationship be the end of our story.
I am in awe of him for the healing and accountability that he has brought to our relationship over the past few years.
I do this work with you; the emails, the courses, the sessions, the community gatherings…because I have seen time and again that it is never too late to start holding a parent. And in turn, for a parent to hold their children more deeply.
I took the leap to start Healing Parents, in great part, because I am Enrique’s daughter.
Like me, my dad loved the art of his work (even though, like me, he hated the rough start, the taxes, the administration and the billing).
He told me how satisfied he felt when he left his stable job in a factory where he was valued for his responsibility and willingness to learn; but wanted to do work that he valued deeply in his own heart. How he didn’t just maintain people’s gardens, but he designed beautiful spaces for them to be in. How when he retired, he got to choose what to do with his business. And he donated it to his workers.
He also told me how proud he was of me for being brave and living my life the way I want to. That he had my back. That taxes will take you by surprise, and how to not let them creep up on you. That he knew I could do it. And that he never wanted me to wait until I felt like I was trapped before asking him for help in any way at all.
Early on in my healing, a small handful of professionals, mostly coaches, taught me what true connection feels like. They gave me a taste of what its like when someone really knows how to bear benevolent witness to your pain; how to listen deeply and with your entire body to another; and how to give someone unconditional love and positive regard even through their darkest thoughts and moments.
This was enough for me to begin bearing benevolent witness to other parents. And facilitating spaces for parents like you to practice giving this to each other.
But when my dad started caming to me with humility and steadfast confidence saying things like, “I’m sorry, I wish I had done things differently when you were younger," or "I've always loved you so much," or “Cuentas conmigo siempre (I’ll always have your back)”, or “I’m really proud of you,” my world and view were transformed again.
He didn’t take a parenting course when I was 2 years old. He didn’t have a parenting coach to call when he felt like he couldn’t stand me and needed to be heard out, so that he could get to the bottom of why. He didn't have a Listening Partner reminding him that he was good and loved no matter how long it took him to work through those hurts from his own story. He didn’t get to learn and then practice how to do the harrowing yet oddly satisfying work of holding space for his children's big feelings.
He didn’t go to therapy for the first time, until I was an adult.
He had to figure so many of these things out on his own. He decided to go to therapy when nobody in his social or family circle did so.
He chose the hard path of healing, and it is a great failing of our society that he had to do so much of it on his own. But because he did this, he transformed his relationship with me, his daughter. Even after all of those years.
I am deeply inspired by your stories of transformation and commitment to the most important relationships of your lives. By your willingness to heal for yourselves and for your children.
Similarly, I continuously choose, time and again, to let my child change me in heartbreaking and deeply painful ways.
And I never would have imagined seven years ago, while my dad held my newborn daughter in his arms, and I looked on with resentment from all of our unfinished business at that time–that just a few years later, he would be a great example of a healing parent to me as well.
An extraordinary story of healing and transformation among the very ordinary, everyday life he created for himself.
Today I am so thankful that by the time my dad was ready to share himself with me, I had been held and healed enough to be able to receive his offerings.
When you remember how important it is to hold our babies, don’t forget how important it is to hold the mothers. The fathers. And to let yourself be held. Because this is how we heal, and we aren't meant to do it alone.
Love is big, and there is enough for all of us. But experiencing it is a choice. And healing is how we learn to make that choice.
I am so glad you are here, learning to lean into this universally human experience of healing and connection, in your own unique way.
May this year bring the many surprising gifts of healing to us all.
Keep going Healing Parents, I’m right here with you.