Our Stories of Struggle and Why We Must Not Hide Them from Our Kids

“Hold
Hold on
Hold on to me
‘Cause I'm a little unsteady
A little unsteady.”
–X Ambassadors, Unsteady

A few days before Christmas my phone rang. It was my dear friend calling. I predicted she’d received the gift I’d sent, along with a letter of encouragement. It was the kind of letter I would want to receive in the midst of a steady stream of letdowns, dead ends, and downpours.

When I said hello, all I could hear was muffled sobs.

“Thank you,” my friend cried. And then months and months of heartache came pouring out.

“It’s all a mess,” she cried. “I’ve lost so much … I feel like I’ve failed my kids.”

That’s when I began speaking softly but firmly, making a prediction about the future that I had no idea how I knew; I just knew.

“Your kids may not appreciate or understand it now, but mark my words: Someday they will be faced with monumental challenge, and they will remember you in this exact moment. They will remember how you managed to stand when the whole world was pushing you down. And they will say to themselves, ‘That is what I am made of. My story isn’t over.’”

My friend stopped crying.

The certainty of my voice astounded me too.

How did I know that my friend’s resilience today would be her children’s future strength? How did I know?

The question plagued me for several days as I thought about my friend’s situation. It wasn’t until we were with my parents over the holidays that the pieces came together.

My dad was making his way down a ramp, gripping his cane in one hand and the railing with the other.

Suddenly, I was back in high school. It was the day of my graduation party. Our dining room table was covered in a cheerful yellow table cloth. It was in the process of being filled with trays of fruit, vegetables, and overflowing bowls of pasta salad.

I don’t know why it was then that my mom said to my dad, “Harry, tell Rachel about the ramp.”

I knew my dad was stricken with polio at age eleven and that he was hospitalized for many months, unable to see his family. I knew he was told he would most likely never walk again, but I did not know about the ramp.

My dad set down the plate of crackers he was carrying and began to talk.

“One day during my hospital stay, my physical therapists and doctor took me to a room where there was a long ramp with two railings on each side.

‘We want to see if you can walk,’ they said to me.

Although I was only eleven, I knew that if a polio survivor could not walk on his own, the doctors would put a brace on the leg. They would wrap it, and the knee would never bend. The muscles would get weak and the polio survivor would never walk again. I knew I did not want that to happen to me.

I said to my doctors, ‘Don’t wrap my leg. Let me try to walk the ramp.’

I wanted to try because I knew this would determine my destiny.

I drug myself all the way down and back, leaning on the bars using the strength of my upper body.

The hospital staff, looking amazed said, “Well … maybe you can learn to walk.’”

I remember becoming so distraught when I heard my dad’s story that I had to leave the room. I went into the kitchen and sobbed into a dishtowel. I remember hugging my dad before the party guests arrived, a silent acknowledgement that I was in awe of his strength and resiliency.

Little did I know my dad’s story would come back to me at pivotal times in my life.

As a special education teacher, I’d accepted a job in the inner city with children who had been kicked out of multiple classrooms. I arrived each day not knowing if I’d be spit on, cussed out, or clung to in desperation. As I sat in the principal’s office one November morning ready to quit, I remembered my father dragging himself. Instead of turning in my resignation, I asked for help and stayed until the year’s end.

My father’s story helped me rise.

As a young mother, my husband and I had to move several states away from family and friends. I became severely depressed and barely missed getting hit by a truck while driving distracted. I got home from the near-miss and searched online for a local mom’s group. Holding my babies in my arms, I went to a meeting the next day. I would no longer suffer alone.

My father’s story helped me rise.

When my children were four and seven, I’d turned into someone I barely recognized—critical and joyless. My children feared me and my husband missed me. I fell to my knees on a deserted road while out for a run, vowing to do whatever it took to get my life back.

My father’s story helped me rise.

Two years ago, I suffered a long bout of mysterious infections that caused pain and fatigue. Doctor after doctor dismissed me, but I continued to search until one discovered a monstrous-sized kidney stone that required two surgeries to be removed. Had I not advocated for myself, the damage could have been severe.

My father’s story helped me rise.

Last spring, grief, exhaustion, and shame led me to a very dark place. As I considered the unthinkable, the pictures in my phone willed me to stay. I saw my children, my husband, my sister, and my parents. Seeing my dad’s face reminded me of what I was made of and what I had to live for.

My father’s story helped me rise.

In the book, The Secrets of Happy Families, Bruce Feiler writes, “The single most important thing you can do for your family may be the simplest of all: develop a strong family narrative. The more children know about their family’s history, the stronger their sense of control over their lives, the higher their self-esteem and the more successfully they believe their families function … Create, refine and retell the story of your family’s positive moments and your ability to bounce back from the difficult ones. That act alone may increase the odds that your family will thrive for many generations to come.”

Having personally experienced the power of knowing I belonged to something greater than myself, I asked my almost 80-year-old dad to share his polio story with his granddaughters. They sat in the condo on an unseasonably cold afternoon during winter break, unsuspecting of the gift they were about to receive.

“I was the same age as you, Avery, when I got polio,” my father began, looking at his youngest granddaughter.

As I began to dictate my father’s words, I felt certain his story would live on in my daughters. Although the impact is not yet known, I’m certain it will give them strength in the face of adversity.

It is the reason I’ve decided not to hide my struggles, failings, or stumbles from my children.

“Have you been crying,” Avery asked me last Thursday when she got home from school.

I’d had a little breakdown that afternoon. I felt scared and overwhelmed as I poured my heart into the final stages of launching SOUL SHIFT, the online course I’ve always dreamed of creating and have worked tirelessly on for many months.

I thought about telling my child I was fine, but instead, I gave her truth.

“Yes,” I admitted. “I felt scared about a new endeavor because it means being brave about difficult periods in my life in order to help other people. But I stopped to breathe and let out my tears. I feel better now.”

My daughter hugged me. “We’re Noticers, Mom, and we feel things deep in our heart and brain. That makes us special. I know you're going to help a lot of people.”

As her arms wrapped around me, I felt a sense of relief. Parents are often led to believe we have to be strong – that we must portray ourselves as invincible. But the truth is, the more human we are, the more it will help our children rise.

In the face of failure
In the face of loss
In the face of adversity
In the face of shame and embarrassment,
They will remember what they are made of.

They will recall the moment we were nearly written off and how we bravely said, “Let me try.”

And when we did, it wasn’t pretty … or graceful … or anywhere near perfect, but we did it. We held on and made it to the other side … together.

My friends, if 2018 is already off to a challenging start,
If things are far from where you want them to be,
If there is no light in the tunnel,
Do not be ashamed.
Instead, shift your focus …

Shift your focus from:
“I need to hide how badly I’m failing”
to:
“I’m showing them what we're made of.”

Shift your focus from:
“This is not how it's supposed to be”
to:
“Watch us shine in the light of the unexpected.”

Shift your focus from:
“My family can’t see me struggle,”
to:
“These are the silver linings of our resilient soul.”

The strength you show in your current challenge will someday be the railing on which your beloveds steady themselves.

The strength you demonstrate today could be what saves them on their darkest day.

Maybe it will be a glance in the mirror, a photo on the nightstand, a family heirloom on their finger, or the familiar lines in the palms of their hands that will halt the barrage of hopeless thoughts.

That’s when a voice of certainty will cut through the despair. “I am made of courage, strength, faith, resiliency, and love. My story is far from over.”

It will be their own voice, and the certainty in it will astound them.

They will think of you.

And they will rise.

Registration is now open for my first-ever online course, SOUL SHIFT! Let this 8-week journey be a positive turning point in your life story. Grasp this unique opportunity to ditch old, destructive habits so you can begin a new chapter of soul-centered joy that will benefit your family now and for generations to come. I believe it is NEVER TOO LATE to live the life you want to live or be the person or parent you want to be. Your most painful truths can be catalysts for change. The tools, accountability, and support you will receive throughout this 8-week journey will facilitate one of life’s hardest, but greatest opportunities: figuring out how to make positive, lasting change in your life and relationships, for good. Click here to learn more about SOUL SHIFT and enroll at the early-bird price available today (1/9) and tomorrow (1/10) only. Thank you for inspiring me to put this long-time dream into action. I'd be grateful if you share this message! Remarkable personal discoveries are about to be made that can lead to a more loving world. Together, there is hope. I am so grateful for your presence and your support.