There are many ways to show up

If you're at risk of vomiting rage stew, stay in the car

Did you want your parent or caregiver involved in your childhood activities?

I wanted my parents to be present at everything; likely in part due to my performance genes (remember how I wanted to be the first Asian Annie?), and partly because the human condition primes us to want what we can’t have.

My parents were undeniably too busy for school field trips and concerts. They were immigrants working long hours at their convenience store, trying at a baseline to feed and clothe seven kids, while also caring for a revolving door of immigrant relatives, including long-term care for their parents.

They were the epitome of people who gave generously, even when they didn’t have much. And as a result, I never begrudged their absences, though I always held out hope, fantasizing about in-the-nick-of-time arrivals.

This fantasy—grooved deep into my consciousness and emotional memory through repetition—meant that when I became a parent, I needed to do some serious unwinding of my own baggage around showing up for my kids. Because though I live a life nowhere near as strained as my parents, I have always needed to work full-time hours to earn a living to support my family. 

And so, I never chaperoned a school field trip for either of my daughters in elementary school. I have missed important events due to work travel, including one particularly heartbreaking instance where my older daughter gave her first speech ever in a packed auditorium while I was 3,000 miles away at a conference. 

I know, intellectually, that all is well and that they get plenty in life, but sometimes it is challenging to reconcile reality against baggage. And then recently, a metaphorical ball hit me in the face.

A couple of weeks ago, I took Violet to a weekend soccer game at an indoor facility. I was emotionally exhausted given that I had been eating rage stew—and hacking on its bile—for several weeks. I was also tired of being attentive and responsible. I was on my own that weekend with parenting and dog walking and household management and wanted to crawl into a hole.

I dropped Violet off at the front door and told her I would park and be in soon. 

I did, in fact, park. 

And then I couldn’t get out of the car. The other soccer parents are lovely, but as an honest, unfiltered person, it is hard for me to say, “great!” if I feel like shit when someone asks me how I’m doing. Faking it seemed impossible. Barfing up my rage stew seemed inappropriate.

And so I sat in blissful silence. I got to genius level on the New York Times Spelling Bee. I scrolled through Instagram and responded to some DMs. I gave

Asha Dornfest

a ring and left a voicemail. I ran through my to-do list and checked my calendar to see what next week looked like, in service of rage stew management. 

I told myself that at 2pm, I would go in to watch the second half of the game. 

At 2pm, I grimaced and was about to get out of my car when Asha called me back. I told her I was psyched that she called, not just to hear her voice but also because I couldn’t deal with going into the soccer bubble and risking vomiting rage stew. We had a good laugh over it.

About 20 minutes later, I said goodbye to Asha, made my way into the soccer facility, and caught the last four minutes of the game. And as I waited in the lobby, a parent said, “OMG did you see Vi’s goal? She was amazing!”

Fuck NO.

Violet is not a striker; she usually plays left midfield and is more defensively minded. It is unusual for her to drive towards the goal. I never anticipate her scoring goals because of these things, and also due to the fact that she hadn’t scored a goal since her first year of travel soccer, many years ago, during one game where she played forward.

When Vi came off the turf, she was in great spirits; her team had crushed it and not only had she scored a goal but she had nearly scored a second. 

I had a flicker of regret and guilt, then brushed it off and asked her to tell me all about it.

And in that moment of delight (hearing Vi tell me the story) and release (my baggage), I felt an enormous sense of relief. 

I was reminded that this moment—her goal—was about her, not me.

I was reminded that I bear witness to plenty of moments in my kids’ lives in real time.

I was reminded that no person can—or should—be expected to be present for every single thing in another person’s life. As a parent, it’s good and healthy to not set up impossible expectations with your kids that will put you on a path to inevitably disappoint them.

And so, I just wanted to remind you that you do not need to be at all the things in order to be a caring parent. There are many, many ways to show up.

I really needed that time alone in my car to recharge and I was able to celebrate with Violet in conversation after the fact. 

And clearly, later, as I heard her recount the story of the goal and almost goal twice more—at the request of other family members—I was reminded that there can be just as much delight in the retelling as there is in the moment.

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Endnotes

• Did you see last week’s announcement about my new mantras series? This personal work has been pivotal in processing my rage stew and I will start sharing it with my paid membership holders this month. If you are interested, sign up or upgrade if you are not already a paid subscriber.

• This conversation with Morra Aarons-Mele about managing anxiety with self-awareness and compassion is the playbook you need for dealing with perfectionism, toxic bosses, boundary setting, and more.

• Last week Violet and I made the most delightful cake together. When I told her I thought it would be fun to try making chocolate shards, her eyes lit up. So magical. She did all the chocolate work here!