When I was 26, deep in the throes of active addiction and hell-bent on my own destruction, I thought I was pregnant. It was more of a feeling than a thought. But, because I needed something to grab on to, something to stabilize my free-fall, I started daydreaming who this child would be.
Tellingly, I saw her as a four or five year old, not as an infant. Dark, inky black eyes, a mop of black hair, and skin the color of coffee with a dash of cream. In my visions, she was silent, knowing. Always calm, radiating an inner peace, an assurance that I’d never known.
In my mind, I created a being that resembled me–not at all. Not even a smidgen. Even down to the unlikeliness that my Irish looking self would produce a beautiful, South American looking child. I projected onto this “child” all the things I wanted for myself. Because I needed something to reach in an yank me from a fire that threatened to consume me. I obviously couldn’t be trusted to do that myself. After all, I was the one who’d set the fire.
Maybe my psyche had created a spirit guide. But it certainly hadn’t envisioned a flesh and blood child.
I received the blessing of one of those flesh-and-bloodchildren later on. When the Universe believed me to be ready. I had to wait a long time. And, let me tell you, that waiting was good for me. Because in that time, I got to get a foothold on the path to saving my own damn self.
When Jane arrived (after two years of trying to bring a child earthside), she looked just like me. That piercing moment of seeing myself reflected in a sweet, innocent babe disabused me of any notion that motherhood would save me. All the pain I’d experienced (self-inflicted and otherwise) came rushing forward. And I knew what was required of me: not to protect her from pain, but to teach her to navigate it with strength, assurance, and inner-knowing.
Which is a hell of a task. One that requires continual, deep psychic work–that I be whole and healthy. This mothering thing, apparently, wasn’t for the faint of heart.
Looking at my sweet newborn baby, I decided my first task was to make peace with my body. Most women probably cringe instinctively at the idea. Our society doesn’t exactly encourage a healthy dose of body-acceptance. But, the kid… she looks like me. If I don’t celebrate my own body… well, what am I saying about hers?
This process–which involved a lot of self-talk in front of a mirror and a pledge never to say anything negative about my body (which I’ve managed to adhere to for 9+ years)–was my first lesson that motherhood would not save me, but it sure as hell would hone me.
Our Jane showed up in this world with an off-the-charts emotional intelligence. She instinctively understands other people, can scope out what motivates them and intuit how to navigate their emotional landscape. None of this we taught her. But we do teach her, daily, how to use this skill with kindness and compassion, how to heal instead of hurt.
That spirit guide my bruised heart created when I was 26, I get to be that for my real, living child.
Sure, I totally fail sometimes. And since I like to do everything with flair–sometime I fail real big.
But I always return to teaching her compassion and love, for herself first and then for other people. I’m currently plotting ways to teach her about intuition (listening and caring for it) and lifecycles of emotion, relationships, and life itself.
Motherhood hasn’t been so much about protecting for me but about preparing. It’s about honesty, peeling back the veil of privilege, teaching her to approach the hard things head on–all the while knowing she’s strong enough, in touch enough with who she is to handle it (whatever it may be).
We all come equipped to be spirit warriors. But we need guides. I am grateful I get to be hers for now. It’s a both a blessing beyond measure and the hardest challenge I’ve ever faced.