I Look for The Bigger Story

Two of my greatest teachers in life are 10 and 7 years old.

Before becoming a recovery coach,  I was a nanny for two amazing kiddos. Our days were full of laughter, sibling squabbles, and the Hamilton soundtrack on repeat. Watching them move through the world has taught me about authenticity and unconditional love. And each of them, in their unique way, has taught me how to listen for a bigger story. 

This lesson first came to me through shoes.

It was Wednesday again. It was time to get ready for soccer practice again. It was time for the youngest (4) to have a meltdown again. 

This cycle had been on repeat for a few weeks. I pulled out all the nanny tricks I knew - transition time, rhyming songs, rewards, and even bribes. But here we were again with my little love resisting the last step in our getting ready process - putting on shoes. 

He was steadfast in his refusal. The previous week's battle had resulted in frustration, tears, and carrying this child barefoot to the car and begrudgingly putting his shoes on at the soccer field with his little body slumped in a heap of emotional exhaustion. Tired and at my wit's end, I sat on the floor, held him in my lap, and kissed his dimpled knuckles and hands that smelled like dirt and graham crackers. 

We sat there in silence, and finally, he said to me, “Amma (they call me Amma), my feet want to tell you a story.” For the next few minutes, I listened to how he felt unsure of knowing his left from his right. He used to know it, but he got it wrong twice at pre-school and felt embarrassed and didn’t want to get it wrong again and put his shoes on the wrong feet. Listening to him, my empathy meter was on overload. My sweet buddy. I knew the story of embarrassment. I lived that story too.

The Lesson of The Shoes has stayed with me. The lesson of pausing. The lesson of the response to tenderness and time. The lesson of looking past surface behavior and listening for the bigger story. 

It has helped me look back on my drinking as coping and an attempt to ease anxiety with a new light of compassion and see that the bigger story for me was burnout, trauma, and shame. The Lesson of The Shoes has come to me when I have felt like saying “eff it” to sobriety, and I remember to sit and kiss my own knuckles and let the narrative rise to the surface. “I want to tell you a story about grief” is what I have heard my heart say. And I put it into practice again when I resist things like movement or meditation. I know my body has a story to tell.

What about you, dear one? Is there a place of resistance you can give a listening ear today? Can you sit and kiss your own skin and wait for the story to take shape and voice itself in your words, heart, and being? 

There is transformative power in our listening. 

I love you. 

Anne Marie