Not about me

I was kneading a batch of bread the other day and it reminded me of a time when I was teaching some church ladies about bread making.  It kind of made me self-conscious to stand in front of everyone trying to show them something I wasn’t entirely sure about myself.  I’m no expert, I don’t know all the tricks or the whys behind good bread, I’m just a mom trying to get dinner on the table.  So it made me uncomfortable being in front of them, pretending to know what I was doing.  Contrast that with the several small groups of friends—just one or two at a time—who have come to my house over the years to make bread or rolls with me.  One young mom really wanted to learn so she wouldn’t have to keep buying the expensive loaves for her allergic daughter.  I was thrilled to teach her what I knew because I love her so much and wanted to help her.  I wasn’t the least bit worried about my form or how I was doing; I just wanted her to gain this skill because it would benefit her family.

Like most of you, I’ve had to stand in front of all sorts of groups over the years, teaching and talking about all kinds of things. I’ve spoken in front of hundreds of adults in large church settings, all the way down to intimate groups of tiny kids in cramped classrooms.  We all just take turns.  To be honest, I love teaching, and I really don’t mind public speaking; but I still have so much to learn about both.

Lately I’ve been preparing for a class I’ll be teaching at our women’s conference in February, I had to teach two lessons yesterday, with another one coming up in a couple of weeks.  When our president first suggested we all teach a class at our upcoming conference, we first laughed and then begged out.  But we needed a couple of classes geared for the high schoolers who would be attending, and I could see the wisdom behind having a Cooking for College class.  It made me nervous to think of pulling something like that off.  I’m not a great cook, I don’t purport to know anything the rest of you don’t already know, and I’m certainly not an entertaining speaker.  Sigh.  But then I recalled what I’d learned about teaching.  It’s not about me.  At all.  In an instant, hesitancy gave way to confidence, crowding out my insecurities; and instead of feeling anxious, I felt excited about sharing any bit of information I could recall or gather between now and then.

I know I’m not the most qualified person, not anywhere close.  But I’ve lived long enough to have learned a few things, mostly because I’ve made a lot of mistakes.  What changed this assignment for me was moving my thinking from myself to the girls I’d be interacting with.  I thought back to what I knew at that age, which added up to about nothing.  I thought about all the things I wish I’d known.  I thought about how much I absolutely love the girls in our stake (area).  I saw them as my little sisters instead of girls I wanted to impress.  As I’ve started gathering ideas, I’ve got them in my mind instead of myself.  By pulling myself out of the picture, there’s so much more room to see them.  And that’s made all the difference.

As I’ve reflected back on various teaching opportunities, I can see that the times I floundered were the times I mistakenly thought it was about me.  And I notice the times I felt satisfaction were times when I could tell they were feeling something about themselves instead.  The best teachers I know inspire us to be our best selves, they draw us out, get us to talk and motivate us to think and want to change.  While I know we can’t help but praise good teachers for being entertaining and fun to listen to, I think we notice that they have a vested interest in their students, they truly care about helping us want to improve and learn.

As all these thoughts raced through my head, I was immediately filled with relief.  And shame.  And encouragement.  And regret.  And hope.  Because I’d been focused on myself in many instances in the past, so self-conscious and worried about my “performance.”  And yet, I recalled occasional instances when I had completely taken myself out of the picture and reflected on how much better that had felt.  Usually it happened when I’d been most desperate and humbled, like the times I had to speak in stake conference (an audience of several hundred).  I knew only God could help me pull it off, and so I put Him front and center.  Looking back, that worked for me.  Because it didn’t have anything to do with me.

I remember years ago subbing for a friend in an early-morning seminary class.  I’ll fill in for nearly any class, even spur of the moment.  But teenagers make me nervous.  Especially in large groups.  But I love this friend, and so I agreed to help out.  The preparation days filled me with dread and anxiety.  Interestingly, as I left the house that morning, unsettled and unsure of myself, I heard the words in my head, “It’s not about you.”  I immediately felt peace and calm. While it took me off-guard, I knew it was true, and I felt an unexpected assurance.  Because I knew I could focus on the message instead of worrying about my technique.  I felt way more confident about my feelings and experiences with God than I did about my teaching ability, and that reminder changed the entire morning for me.

I’ve noticed how life-changing this simple mind-switch is.  And how calming it is.  As I’ve prepared for various assignments with the audiences in mind, I can’t help but think about what issues they’re facing, what their lives look like, what God would want to say to them.  When I take myself out of the equation, my role changes from being the focus to being something more like a window or an instrument.  How freeing!!  Years ago I read that a  successful talk or lesson is one where the students leave talking about what they felt or learned rather than the teacher and how good she was.

And it doesn’t just apply to teaching situations.  My dad was awesome at this.  I know for a fact he never analyzed this principle or had any idea what he was doing.  But my mom, two sisters and I have all confessed to each other that we’ve become just like dad.  After all the years spent watching him, it’s just became second-nature for us to talk to everybody like he did.  Everybody.  I can’t tell you how many times I’ll end a phone call with an insurance lady or the Charter guy and I feel like I’m saying goodbye to a friend.  Because we’ve joked with each other, we’ve talked about the snow or our kids, just regular-people things and we’ve made a connection.  (It’s bad because now I know all about the tile guy’s wife and kids, making it completely challenging to be objective about whose bid to accept.)  My dad talked to all the waitresses and store clerks.  My mom always compliments the young workers when she shops (“They need a little boost. I think it makes them feel good when someone notices them.”), exchanging emails with her seat mates when she flies, offering fellow students at Education Week to come stay with her next year.  She engaged one shuttle driver so deeply in conversation that he forgot to pick up his passenger!  They’ve taught us to accept all kinds of people and lifestyles, to be genuine, to inquire, that everyone has a story.  Of course that’s not to say we should pepper people with questions and never share about ourselves, that’s just part of good conversation.  But we all know how nice it feels to be asked what we think instead of someone droning on about himself.  It goes without saying that teachers and speakers should of course draw on their own personal experiences and let their personalities shine as they impart a message.  But it takes a lot of the pressure off when we we’re less concerned about impressing others and think about what they might be going through or feeling instead.

This is the easiest trick in the world to feeling confident.  In an instant, you shift from being worried about yourself to feeling genuine concern for the people you’re with.  Brilliant.  And so simple!  Think about the application!!  Walking into a large room (like a wedding reception, nightmare) suddenly becomes less nerve-wracking when you stop worrying about who will talk to you and instead start looking around for who you will talk to, who’s standing alone looking awkward maybe.  I think this is why hosting large groups for dinner or lunch is hardly an issue.  It’s not about impressing people; it’s about making them feel welcome and comfortable, like they’re part of the family.  I try to teach this to my kids all the time.  Instead of worrying about who will invite you to eat lunch, start looking around for who you can invite to eat with you.  Stop praying to have a friend and instead pray to be a friend.  I wish I had understood this idea years and years ago.  Think how different high school could’ve been for us if we had simply tried to put ourselves in someone else’s shoes, tried to look at things from another’s perspective, worried less about ourselves and tried to look out for others’ feelings instead.

More than anything, this is just a reminder to myself.  Because I surprise myself with my forgetfulness. To feel calm and peaceful, enthusiastic and confident, settled and at ease in all kinds of situations, all I need to do is step aside and tell myself, “It’s not about you.”

"Oh how we need each other"

I finally mustered up the courage to do a little internet search.  I’d hesitated for longer than you might think prudent given my history. But I was afraid to find out if it was serious. I’d had a tingling of sorts under my left arm for several months.  I never thought to mention it to my oncologist back in November when he asked if I’d been having any pain. I simply attributed it to my node-removal prior to my mastectomy and figured if it got any worse I’d deal with it then.  But when I finally checked it out by typing in something like “pain after node removal years later,” women who’d had the same procedures shared anecdotes highlighting similar pain years after as well.  Those few invested minutes changed me.  Instead of worrying, I felt calm. If it’s just a normal side effect, I can live with inconvenience, a little discomfort.  What a relief it was to realize I’m not the only one!

I think of our friend who just had a baby and who is new to nursing.  We commiserated with her over lunch, remembering back to our own pain and awkwardness.  No one had told her what to expect after the delivery, so it was all sort of a surprise.  I think she felt that same relief when we told her everything she was experiencing was completely normal and to be anticipated, from emotions to soreness.  I remember reading in my What to Expect books; just knowing that what I was dealing with wasn’t uncommon, comforted and settled me as a new mother.  Likewise, I think it helped her as we shared stories of our own.

I joined our small presidency meeting early one morning a few weeks back. It didn’t take much, I don’t even remember the exact context, but essentially one of my friends was telling me about a talk she’d just listened to that made her think of me, the kind of mom I am.  I warned her, she was going to make me cry if she said anything more about me as a mom that morning.  But she didn’t listen; so then out of nowhere, the tears just came.  I confessed that I felt like a failure.  I was the last person in the world she should be calling a good mom.  I think the tears surprised them.  But not really.  The four of us talked.  One came around the table and hugged me.  Kleenex came out.  What happened was so good for us.  Each shared her own current sadness.  We all ended up crying, each more concerned for the other than we’d been about our own heartaches.  I felt so validated, I knew they understood because they are mothers too with heartaches of their own.  And I know it helped them feel better to share their worries in a safe place.

I’ve learned that instead of acting like we’ve got it all together, as we allow ourselves to be vulnerable and authentic, we give others permission to do the same.  I feel like sometimes we walk around holding our breath, afraid someone will discover our secrets, that we’re just trying to figure things out as we go, that we’re just doing the best we can, even though it doesn’t look like much. I just read The Nightingale, but it could be any book on World War II actually.  Everyone seems to be holding their breath.  Even the German soldiers who seem so powerful and strong can’t truly rely on one another.  No one trusts anyone.  Everything seems to be a facade.  But what consolation when a downed airman finds a citizen he can count on to house him for a night, and when that citizen trusts him to do her no harm as she does.  Stories like that remind us how good it feels to exhale, to just be able to breathe, to not have to keep up pretenses.  This is how it feels to have found a true friend.

I’m drawn to people who, when I open my heart, don’t barrage me with a litany of suggestions that worked for them, but instead commiserate and share that they’ve had similar struggles, that I’m not the only one.  I don’t want an expert, I just want a soft place to lay my head for awhile.  I simply need a friend beside me as I figure out what my best course of action is.

I think new moms want to know that other moms once felt frumpy and overwhelmed and tired too.  That nursing was weird.  That they didn’t bond with their babies right away.  That it changed their marriages in unsuspecting ways.  It strengthens that sisterhood more than if the experienced mom simply gives advice and counsel, showcasing all her strengths as an experienced mother.

I think it helps when other women admit they’ve got questions of their own.  That they of course experience times of spiritual highs and lows.  I think it’s off-putting when they hear others who seem to be riding the wave without ever losing their balance.  Where does that leave us who sometimes feel like we’re just treading water?

I don’t need a circle of women who constantly complain any more than I want friends who are perfect.  I don’t want to be around women who endlessly criticize and gossip any more than I want to spend time around women who never seem to get annoyed, frazzled, worried, or down.  I just want women friends who are real.  Who admit their failings (perceived or actual) but get on with life.  Who can cry over a major loss with me one minute but who will laugh with me till we ache the next.  Who I can share my deepest questions with, as well as my long-awaited answers to earnest prayers.  And I expect and love it when they do the same.

I don’t need—or even want—girlfriends who have all the answers.  Sometimes I’ll ask them for advice, but most of the time I think we already know what we need to do.  No, mostly all I want is to know I’m normal, that I’m not alone.  That the pains I’m feeling—either in my arm or in my heart—have been felt by someone else.  I don’t necessarily want to dwell on it all, but I long to be validated, to know I’m not the only one who’s dealt with this before.  And maybe I’m not speaking for all women.  Maybe you feel you’ve got this, your parents and siblings have your back, you’ve got your husbands and your kids, you’re good.  So what happens even if you have it all now but lose it one unsuspecting day?  Or simply get lonely? What if someone like me needs someone like you?  What if we’d just love it if you’d walk with us as we raise our families in this crazy world?  What if we need you to hug us when we cry, to laugh with us through the absurdities of life, to celebrate how far we’ve come and to mourn with us when we feel overwhelmed or sad?  You might not need us, but you might be exactly the friend we’ve been waiting for.  We might need you.

Interestingly, I think it might just as hard for some women to let down their guard and let friends see their weak side as it was for me to finally decide to figure out if my arm pain was serious, but I think the reason is the same.  Most of us are scared.  To discover the truth.  To let others in. 

You’ve heard this all before, and maybe you feel the same, I don’t know. “Oh, how we need each other. Those of us who are old need you who are young.  And, hopefully, you who are young need some of us who are old. It is a sociological fact that women need women. We need deep and satisfying and loyal friendships with each other.” (Marjorie Pay Hinckley)

Any maybe I’m preaching to the choir.  We’ve found amazing, authentic friends and families we’ve connected with who’ve shared their own heartbreaks and questions as we’ve shared ours over the years.  And I know you have too. In fact, I can’t help but think that’s exactly what makes people close, just knowing we’re not alone in all of it, that someone else is going through something similar.  A little pain—however persistent—just seems to soften when we know others have felt something like it too.