I went on a long hike two days ago, completing a trail I’d only partially done a few times. This time I mapped it on an app and committed to finishing it, to say I did, to push myself…because I wanted/needed to feel that fleeting sense of accomplishment. I’d had some jolting dreams and needed to feel the burn of the steep climbs and a steady pace.
The more I walked, the more I sweat and the more I became aware of what I was doing because I’ve done it so many times over many years—I was judging the worth of the hike by how arduous it was. If a trail didn’t challenge me, if I wasn’t left panting and exhausted, l didn’t feel as accomplished; sometimes I wouldn’t even count the hike as a workout, work done or something to feel good about or fulfilled by. Oh, you did 3 miles, why not 5? Okay, you did 5, now go for 7…
Life lesson: What does this say if I don’t feel as accomplished by an easy/easier success/win as I do a hard one? Am I that used to struggle? Do I not see myself as worthy of ease or blessings that don’t come with a price—my sweat, my blood & tears?
Am I slapping the hand of the universe away when I don’t show appreciation or gratitude?
I once dated a man who rolled his eyes and chuckled at what I called hiking—the trails of Inwood Hill Park. He said he’d hiked the wilderness & camped out in the winter months, when there was snow on the ground and ice everywhere so he had to wear spiked boots—“that’s real hiking” he said. I stared at him, perplexed. Why did we have to compare? Why was my trekking weak, not “real hiking” because it was different?
Isn’t this what I did to myself the other day ( I even wrote a newsletter about it) when I said I wasn’t a real hiker until climbed that steep trail to 1,445 elevation and walked on the ridge of the mountain? The next day the ache in my ankles made me wince and smile at myself with satisfaction: This is a new pain. This pain means I did something…
I do this often. I have a win—a big publication, a residency, a fellowship—and I don’t let myself enjoy it. I move on to the next thing with little celebration. I downplay the win, shrug it off by comparing it to something I haven’t done—“great, you got published in the NY Times but where’s the memoir, V?”; “yes, you got that __ residency but Hedgebrook still doesn’t want you! How many times have you applied again?”; “Sure, you partnered with Tin House, The Rumpus, Longreads and NYU’s Latinx Project, but this mag hasn’t responded & that journal said maybe later.”
I’m still unpacking where this comes from. This morning my mind went to a memory I’ve been turning around and examining from different angles under the microscope of my mind’s eye: It’s 1997, hours after Columbia University’s graduation ceremony. I’m at lunch with my family at an Italian spot on the upper west side, not far from campus. I’m still wearing the gown with the Columbia crown stitched onto the lapel and carrying the cap I refused to throw into the air with my classmates. I reveal that I’m not going to law school. “I want to take some time to work and figure out what it is I really want to do,” I say. (I have never regretted this decision.) My mother slams her fork onto the table so hard, it shakes and the ice clinks in our glasses. She glares at me, says: “Yo sabía que tu no ibas hacer ni mierda con tu vida.” (“I knew you weren’t going to do shit with your life.”)
I’d been trying since I was a kid to satisfy my mother—maybe if I do this she’ll love me… maybe if I do that. I realized in that moment that I would never be enough and nothing I did would ever be enough for her. I told myself that from that moment on I was going to stop trying to please her. I was going to live my life for me.
I am 47 and still uncovering the ways I internalized my mother’s voice and this false (devastating) notion that I am not enough and nothing I do is ever enough.
Now, what to do with this knowledge? How to I counter this? How do I convince myself of my worth beyond accomplishments and failures? How do I convince myself that I am enough, have always been enough, will always be enough?
I think of this quote in Stephanie Woo’s What My Bones Know: A Memoir of Healing from Complex Trauma, which I’ve been reading slowly and quietly, stopping often to sob, process and scribble down notes: “Over and over, the answer is the same, isn’t it? Love, love, love. The salve and the cure. In order to become a better person, I had to do something utterly unintuitive. I had to reject the idea that punishing myself would solve the problem. I had to find the love.”
Have I been punishing myself all this time for not being worthy of my mother’s love?
In this moment I completely understand why people flee from writing about their lives. Who wants to look at the mirror that is this page? Damn.
I can relate to struggling with the relationship with ones mother very much. My mother is quite different. She is circumspect and this enables me to project my insecurities and doubts onto her. I wish you peace and I think you are in the right track regarding self acceptance and love!
Beautiful, on point and so necessary!