Self-responsibility, and being a “good enough” mom

Here’s a hard thing. My husband and I are struggling a bit (nope, a lot) with my daughter right now.

She’s 11, and in 5th grade, and for the most part, is a pretty great kid. She’s smart, kind, energetic, and funny. She loves gymnastics, singing, history, and animals. She reads far beyond what most 5th graders do, and has an endless supply of curiosity. But she was also recently diagnosed with ADHD, and Generalized Anxiety Disorder…and borderline OCD. It’s been going on for much longer than we’ve had the diagnosis, though. I carry a little bit of guilt for not getting her tested sooner. But then I remember that at least I did something now—and that’s made things a little better.

She’s been taking ADHD medication for the last three months, and it’s been making a difference in her ability to focus in school, which is wonderful. But one of the side effects of the medication is that it can also cause anxiety. Which, for a kid who already has a clinical anxiety diagnosis, is not a great thing. And this particular side effect has definitely been making itself known.

My relationship with my daughter has always been challenging. She was a tough, colicky baby, and I was dealing with undiagnosed Postpartum Depression at the time, which led me to be not the most empathetic or present with her when she was little. Now that she’s a tween, she reminds me a lot of myself when I was her age—classic parental karma, I guess. She’s strong-willed, curious, and goofy with her friends. But she can also be withdrawn, argumentative, and inside her own head far too much for her own good. It’s difficult seeing her experience some of the same emotional turbulence I did when I was a kid. I don’t remember being argumentative, per se, and I don’t think I struggled with ADHD or OCD tendencies, but I do believe I wrestled with anxiety and depression. And I very clearly remember feeling like my parents didn’t listen to me, or trust me, or really allow me to feel anything that wasn’t happy or grateful. It was a very “turn that frown upside down,” or “come on, can you be happy for me?” kind of environment.

I promised myself I would not repeat those patterns with my own kids. And for the most part, I feel like I’m keeping that promise.

Yet here I am, with a daughter who is feeling much like I did at her age (and then some), even though I’m doing everything I can to help. I’m taking everything I’ve learned from all of my own inner-work—therapy, coaching, mindfulness, self-compassion, reading, writing, classes, you name it—and trying to walk alongside her as she navigates her experience. I’m talking to her about her feelings, which my mom never did. I’m letting her know that it’s OK to talk about hard things. I’m working through my own frustration (most of the time) behind-the-scenes so that I can show up more compassionately for her. I’m being vulnerable and sharing my own struggles.

But it’s still not enough.

This past weekend, we had a pretty tough moment with her. We were sitting on the couch right before bedtime, and she told me and my husband about something she was feeling that she didn’t like, but that she also couldn’t control—the need to repeat specific actions on both sides of her body, like scratching one leg and then being compelled to scratch the other. Even feeling like she has to pet the cats in the same place, and the same way, on both sides of their bodies, too. As we sat there there listening, I tried to empathize, letting her know that while I’d never had that exact urge, I understood that it was hard and frustrating for her. I thanked her for telling us. I also suggested that it might be a good topic for her to talk about with her therapist in this week’s appointment.

Almost reflexively, she said NO.

She expressed that she doesn’t want to talk to her therapist about this, or about anything at all. That therapy doesn’t work. That I’M her therapist, and that she only wants to tell these kinds of things to ME. I felt a little twinge of “I’m grateful that she feels like she can talk to me,” but an even bigger twinge of “but I’m not a therapist.” So I shared both feelings with her, and also shared how much therapy has helped me in the past few years. That it’s a therapist’s job to listen, to talk through how we feel together, and to help us build coping and management strategies. I explained that therapists are emotion doctors—so just the same way we’d go to a foot doctor if we need help with our feet, we go to an emotion doctor if we need help with our emotions.

She still refused. And shut down. And buried her head between the couch pillows.

I didn’t know what else to do, so we all just sat there. The tension eventually fizzled, and we went upstairs to go to bed. But as I laid there, trying to fall asleep, I kept replaying it all in my head. What should I have done differently? Why am I not able to get through to her? Am I failing at being a good mom? What’s going on with her, and is it somehow my fault? What do we do now?

Throughout the night, I had some pretty intense and stressful dreams. When I woke up the next morning, I remembered them vividly—which only happens when my subconscious is processing something big while I sleep. But instead of waking up tense, and filled with more guilt because of the stressful dreams, I actually work up with a little bit of perspective.

It was kind of like an “aha” moment, but way more subtle. Not like discovering something I’d never seen before, but more like remembering something that’s always been there—it had just been covered in a thick layer of sand. I acknowledged that I’ve been really hard on myself, for years now, for not having more patience with my daughter in general. More recently, I’ve added to that with self-flagellation for not being able to help her through her ADHD, anxiety, and whatever else is swirling around in her complicated and fragile soul. I recognized that the thoughts that keep pulling me back into “not enoughness” are from my experience, not hers. The fact no one helped me as a kid. No one noticed when I was in pain, or asked how I was feeling, No one ever told me it was OK to not be OK all the time.

What I’ve been feeling has been more about my past than her present. I’ve been trying so hard not to repeat what my parents did back then, that I haven’t been recognizing or appreciating what I’m doing right now.

I’m showing up.

I’m noticing when she’s struggling, and asking her how she feels.

I’m encouraging her to talk to me.

I’m apologizing when I lose my own shit and lash out in frustration.

I’m introducing her to the concepts of courage and vulnerability.

I’m accepting that she needs more support than what I’m capable of offering, and I’m trying to get her help.

I’m also trying to practice what Lisa Olivera calls radical self-responsibility in Already Enough—remembering that “we will never be able to fully control what anyone else does, what happens in the world, or what the future holds. What we can control is how we respond to what happens within and around us.”

What this means for me is that I can only take my daughter so far. I can talk with her. I can try to teach her. I can empathize. I can listen. I can make her appointments with doctors and therapists. But I can’t force her to open-up to them. That’s out of my realm of control.

I’m working on remembering that that’s not a failure.

That’s being human.

And as long as I keep doing that, I will try to keep reminding myself that who I am, and how I’m showing up as her mom, is good enough.