You Will Be OK If You Try

One Saturday this past fall, I was at a soccer game of Hadley’s. She was playing goalie and during a block, got kicked in the mouth by an attempted goal.

I jumped out of the lawn chair I was sitting in and ran on the field towards her, and about five strides in, I started to wonder whether this was the right thing to do. Phrases like, “over-reacting” and “helicopter parent” popped into my head. What’s more, those of you who have spent any amount of time with Hadley, or have read this blog since its beginning, know that the last thing she wants when she’s out in the world doing her thing is her mama up in her face.

But I wasn’t going to stop running because how much worse would that’ve looked? A mom hauls ass onto the field then half-way towards her kid, turns around and goes back to her seat? So I ran toward Hadley, ready to accept any shame or screaming she and/or the ref might shoot my way.

I write about this incident because this feeling: the heart skipping from excitement then the dreaded second guessing is very similar to how I feel when I sit down to write. When I think I have a story, it’s easy to crank out one or two words (I wish I could say sentences) and then skip to, “What if nobody likes this? What if it doesn’t get accepted in the place I’m thinking of submitting? What if what I’m writing is wrong or stupid?”

I wish I could say the second guessing goes away after a certain amount of years writing, but it hasn’t (for me). Neither does the feeling of excitement I get when I think I’ve discovered a story. Perhaps the trick then, is to sit with these two feelings and do what it is you think you’re interested in doing instead of allowing one of those feelings to give you an answer. Because in my experience, what grows when I’m in the thick of work is an understanding – an acceptance – that I will be OK, no matter the outcome, because I am trying.

I write all this in order to introduce you to the Listen To Your Mother 2015 auditions. Of course if you get a chance to tell your story on stage you will have an amazing experience. Of course you will work with a director and a producer that will not only make you feel like a rockstar but will take care of your words and show you how to polish them so you see things about your story you hadn’t seen before. Of course you will meet a group of people who are just as daunted, mystified, and in love with motherhood as you are, and who are doing their best to name those feelings through story.

But most of all, if your heart skipped a beat when you found out about LTYM, and then if you began to second guess yourself, I want you to know that you will be OK if you try. I’m not going to tell you how to write or what to write so that you’ll get a spot. That’s for you to figure out (and also, I don’t know). I want to tell you that if you want to write, the only person who can find your voice and your story is you. I can’t promise you that you’ll get in, but I can promise you that you’ll be OK if you audition.

(Sometimes people ask me how I knew I was supposed to be a writer: what signs pointed me in this direction? I pay no attention to signs because a)I am a stubborn donkey and b)if I paid attention to signs they would all point to me trying out for the Luv-a-Bulls and/or shopping for a living. Yet another reason to take a few moments when those raging feelings scream: YOU CAN TOTALLY DO THIS, or THIS IS NOT A GOOD IDEA.)

The other thing I can promise you is that whether you are on stage or in the audience, you will be shaped  by the stories you hear. What also kept me running that Saturday I ran onto the field, was Stephanie’s story. Because she was brave enough to write and share her story, I was comforted and encouraged by another mom who never knows if she’s doing the right thing. I knew that if she could keep running without knowing what the outcome would be, I could too.

That day, Hadley slammed into my arms. She was terrified. She was hurt. She was angry. And for a few shorts seconds (before the ref told me I had to get off the field), she needed me. My jeans had grass stains on them from slamming my knees on the ground so I could grab Hadley, wrap her up so her face went just under my chin, and my right hand cradled her head.

And I happened to end up with a spot in last year’s LTYM show. It was a great experience and something I wish I could do every year.

But those are just two outcomes in a long list of false starts and failed attempts. Hadley doesn’t always need me to comfort her. I get many “thanks but no thanks” responses on the writing I submit.

I’m not convinced the outcome matters so long as you keep running or keep writing or keep mothering, even if you don’t know what you’re doing.

You will be OK if you try.