Even if the path ahead looks straight and smooth, without obstacles or stumbling blocks, don’t be fooled—you may yet still trip over an ill-placed speed bump and find yourself sprawled out on the pavement more quickly than you can say, look out or watch that. That’s pretty much what happened to me this evening as I was walking alongside my oldest teenager on her way to a neurodivergent teen hangout. She’d come to the same gathering last week and was beyond excited when it was over, talking about how awesome it was on the drive home. But in between that gathering and this one, she has let the voices of her inner critic and even the enemy with those loud lies infiltrate her thoughts.
She has been a bit more anxious about this week’s teen hangout than she was for the initial one. This, after having already met at least three of the other teenagers. But there’s one person who has her doubting herself; actually, it’s two people. It’s the voice of one of the other teens layered over hers, and, honestly, that makes the voice so much louder than anyone else’s. I have spent some time trying to speak truth into her heart and mind, but I’m fairly certain my words are being absorbed by a layer of sticky anxiety that won’t allow those words to settle anywhere in her mind. Instead, my words are snapped up by a sticky film, almost like the trigger in a venus fly trap, each word absorbed by the critic.
Even so, my 17 year old is showing up. She is bold and courageous and awesome and I couldn’t be more impressed by her tenacity and willingness to walk through the doors once again tonight. I am so focused on her, smiling at her and telling her how awesome her hair looks, even reaching out to touch it, that I don’t see the speed bump in our path. One moment I am smiling at my teenager, awed by her courage and tenacity, the next I am splayed out on the ground, my seltzer soda rolling across the tar, my phone bouncing from my hand and along the hard surface and my left side screaming with pain. I want to stay there, maybe even cry because my body and my heart are all hurting at the same time; I know only why my body is hurting.
But my daughter is doing something brave, and, in a flash, I push myself up off the ground, smile through gritted teeth, and walk beside my girl to the door that leads to her teen gathering. I assure her I am fine. We do that, don’t we? All of us—parents, teens, friends, family—we look at each other and try to convince one another that we’re fine, everything’s good. Why can’t we choose to be honest? Why can’t I limp and maybe even whimper? Why can’t my girl tell the group she doesn’t want to play a game, but she’s happy to hang out because she enjoys their company? Why can’t we let a friend know they’ve hurt our feelings? Why don’t we admit our weakness in the moment?
Perhaps because we are too afraid someone will see the real us and not like what they see? I don’t know. I can’t see how anyone could look at either of my two teenagers and not see their absolute awesomeness. Because it is only in our authenticity, in our real selves that our awesomeness resides. It is only in our true selves where people will get to see what truly matters—to us, to the world, to themselves. Each of us had unique gifts and talents and abilities and the world needs them. The world needs us.
Sometimes, we are going to fall.
Sometimes, we are not going to see the speed bump or the tangle on the path before us, and we are going to stumble and not be able to prevent our falling and finding ourselves splayed out on the ground. If we are lucky. If we have been authentic and transparent, people will see us in our strength and our weakness there on the ground. My hope is that there will always be someone who comes along and extends a hand and helps us up. My hope is that there will always be another who is willing to be real and to be seen in their strength that can be interpreted as weakness.
I pray the loud voices, the ones with the lies and the bravado and the pretense, will fade into the backgrounds of each of our lives. I pray, too, that those who are willing to step through the doors even when they are anxious and even fearful will find there are others like themselves, others who will let their true selves shine, bruises, scrapes, fears, weaknesses, and all. Because that’s what helps change the world, my friends. That’s what shines the light others need. That’s what makes the real difference every single day. And that’s what I see in these two remarkable young women every day—the real difference they make because of who they are.