The Heartbreak of Striving

img002I know the heartbreak of striving. If you’re a dancer or a writer or anyone who has ever put your all into something, be it an art or sport or pursuit of a truth—knowing the odds of success might be questionable—you know it too.

It’s the moment “hobby” turns to passion. “Like to” turns to “have to.” “Want to” turns to “my heart will break if I don’t.”

For me, that shift happened in ballet when I was at that pivotal age of eleven. For years my friends and I had danced happily, loving the music, loving the combinations our teachers asked of us. High on childhood and music and ballet, we had a rose-colored view of ourselves. Blind to the work ahead, we could imagine that we were ballerinas already. We were being taught technique in such a loving way, it fed our dreams without building the muscles of self-critique. We soared on our dreams.

But suddenly, around the age of eleven, something dawned on all of us—especially those with talent. Ballet is hard. Really, really hard—even if you have talent for it. It’s a strange phenomenon. As you get closer to being a real dancer, as your teachers demand more of you and you demand more of yourself, you begin to feel the pain of not being good enough. Not yet. Your ability to happy with the pictures you make in the mirror must be delayed. It was a hard realization. To suddenly feel inadequate at the age of eleven. My first heartbreak.

The thing is, in order to become good at ballet, I needed to recognize that there was room for improvement. We all did. We needed to push through to become better at it. Our teachers impressed this upon us. We were not good enough yet. Those of us who truly loved ballet understood that it would take years before we were good enough. And because ballet was what we wanted, we were willing to do the work and to wait. Even though we were just kids. Even though we knew that, even with work and time, some of us might not make it. I hope I do, we’d say. I hope I make it. We were competitors, fellow strivers and fellow sufferers.

One day half the girls in my class had learned they were going on pointe. The other half—myself included— were told we weren’t strong enough and would have to wait one more excruciating year to get our satin pinks. No matter how hard we’d worked, we were not ready. A second heartbreak.

Beginning then, our four-times-per-week ballet class was extended fifteen minutes. Our teacher would clap her hands say the words—ladies, put on your pointe shoes! And the lucky half would run for the corner to wrap their toes in lamb’s wool and slip on their hard-tipped shoes, lace up the gleaming ribbons. The rest of us, with heavy hearts, joined in their special exercises in our normal “flat” ballet slippers—our dreams deferred as our classmates blistered and bled, building callouses they would later show off.

The year passed. I got my shoes, then my callouses. Another year later, no one in our ballet class could remember who had gone on pointe at eleven and who’d had to wait. But now the work of becoming real ballet dancers kicked into high gear. We had ballet class six days per week, knowing that other girls our age danced three classes per day to our one. Still, there was plenty of blood, sweat and tears. Some of us made it.

As a writer, I have revised my novel umpteen times, received great feedback, but also rejections. I will continue to revise and work until my book is good enough. Just as I did with my dancing. If you are to strive for something you love, no matter what the endeavor, there will be heartbreak along the way.

teaching at MAD LOMI saw a germ of this in one of my little ballet students just two weeks ago. I was teaching the class a new skill—a single pirouette from fourth position. We’d been building up to it, working on passé, passé relevé, spotting the head, opening and closing the arms, proper placement. This girl was ready to turn, I thought. So I stayed with her as she worked through the steps and tried the turn. I was patient and encouraging in just the right measures, I thought. She was determined—I could see it—and I would not let her give up.

“That’s it,” I kept saying, between more technical instructions. “You’re there.” I kept pushing, gently, sure I was going to get a result that delighted us both. She’d have that feeling of balance, of landing, of making the illusion of spinning.

“Once more.” As I said it, I realized it was too much. Her brown eyes were welling up, spilling over. Soon she was sobbing, having put her all into something that was not working. Not yet.

I felt awful. So guilty. I had made a child cry. But then I remembered how many times I had cried while I was striving for my dream—sometimes because I was hard on myself, other times because I was scolded by my ballet teachers. Granted, in my day, adults were more openly critical of children in ways that weren’t always good. Today, we have expressions like “It’s all good.”

Of course, in ballet, it isn’t all good. As teachers, we have the difficult task of expressing that in a non-damaging way. I don’t believe it’s necessary to be negative with children, to “draw the talent out of them,” as some teachers did when I was growing up. Instead, I think we need to find creative ways to inspire children, to nurture their passion for art or sports or science or music. When they love what they are doing, striving—having a self-imposed standard to meet—comes naturally. And, though there will certainly be heartbreak along the way, hearts are resilient.

To my little, tearful student, to all children moving from play into passion, my advice is as follows:

Whatever your dream—enjoy the journey, keep your eyes on the prize, and don’t give up when it’s tough. You’ll get there.

Mixed in America: Closing the Arch

New Profile picIn my last post, Does the “White Privilege” Umbrella cover Black and Biracial Children?, I introduced my White Umbrella Project, including a survey, about the experiences of other black and biracial people whose early guides to the world were white parents. Since the survey went live, here and on various multiracial Facebook groups, responses have been coming in steadily—people sounding off on what it means to reside on both sides of the bridge between black and white.*

This project has been brewing in me for years, but there is a reason I’m launching it now.

This past fall and winter, in the aftermath of the killing of Michael Brown and Eric Garner, in the wake of the protests and the speeches and the clashes, the calls for justice and calls for dialogue, I kept hearing about an America divided along racial lines. It wasn’t a new phase by any means, but one that rears up and becomes prevalent every few years.

There is a black America and a white America and never shall the two see eye to eye, was the message—expressed most eloquently in the New Yorker cover of December 8th, 2014, by Bob Staake, a “post-Ferguson” depiction of Eero Saarinen’s iconic Gateway Arch, centerpiece of the St. Louis Skyline, in this case shaded black on one side, white on the other, the arch broken, its ends reaching in vain for reconciliation.

New Yorker image,

I took in that cover with a heavy heart, registering the sentiment loud and clear. I am one of many Americans—the president of the United States included—for whom black and white are inseparable. It is what we are.

It’s worth mentioning, too, that all the blacks, whites, Asians and Latinos I know have varied and nuanced views of the events, to say nothing of the fact that the protestors and police defenders seemed to come in all races.

I’m not naïve. I recognize that the black/white rift is more stark in some parts of the country than others, that the multiracial mobs with linked arms hailed mostly from the two coasts and from university towns. But it’s my pet peeve when the press oversimplifies and disregards those who live in the middle. With interracial marriage on the rise, as well as more multiracial people than ever identifying as such, the racial “grey” area is becoming more and more populous.

It goes beyond America too. Trevor Noah, the South African comedian of black Xhosa and white Swiss parentage, who is slated to replace Jon Stewart in the Daily Show, also grew up in two separate worlds—being shuttled back and forth between his mother’s home in black Soweto and his father’s apartment in largely white Johannesburg. In a New York Times article, Noah describes being alternately embraced and rejected in both settings.

This echoes the experience of so many mixed-race Americans. The both/and-ers, the neither/nors. For some of us, like Barack Obama or Halle Berry, our African ancestry is plainly visible. For others, like Wentworth Miller and Carol Channing—not so much. Many of us have identities that resonate sometimes black and sometimes white, depending on where we are, which side of the family we’re with—regardless of what we look like.

I was raised by a black father and a white mother, but because of their work schedules, it was my mother who accompanied me most places. My early view of the world came through her eyes. Whether we went to her friend’s pool club in the summer, or shopped on the Upper East Side, I assumed—correctly or not—that I would be accepted and embraced. I didn’t grow up feeling particularly different from the white or black people I met. It was not until college that anyone demanded I choose my allegiance.

Everyone’s experience of being biracial is different, but I suspect I’m far from alone in my cringe-reflex when I hear about the irreparable chasm between my two sides.

Does the “White Privilege” Umbrella cover Black and Biracial Children? (Survey included)

Baby 1966This is the first post I have written soliciting responses to a survey—so I’m stating it up front: At the end of this post is an actual, honest-to-goodness survey for those who are interested and who fit the demographics* I’m looking for.

So, what is this about “White Privilege?” Sounds kind of political, kind of threatening, no?

The first time I heard the term “White Privilege,” I was in my late twenties and teaching at a very exclusive, private girls’ school on the Upper East Side of New York. Peggy McIntosh, PhD., the feminist, antiracism activist and associate director of the Wellesley College Women’s Project, had been brought in by the Parents’ Diversity Awareness Committee of said school. McIntosh, who is white, was there to discuss her famous paper, White Privilege, Unpacking the Invisible Backpack, as part of a workshop for staff, parents and students about the ways in which whites unwittingly benefit from racism on a daily basis.

I was fascinated as McIntosh described white privilege as an

invisible package of unearned assets which [she could] count on cashing in each day, but about which [she] was ‘meant’ to remain oblivious.

However, as she began to list these assets and privileges, I found myself thinking: hold on a minute—I grew up with a lot of those assets and I’m not white! What gave?

As I thought it over, I realized that, as a child—regardless of my color—I had walked through the world in the care and company of a white mother. I had un-harassed entry into upscale department stores and swimming pools. Most everywhere I went, people had treated me with the same respect they paid my mother.

When McIntosh went on to list the ways in which her skin tone worked in her favor:

“I can turn on the television or open to the front page of the paper and see people of my race widely represented …When I am told about our national heritage or about “civilization,” I am shown that people of my color made it what it is … Whether I [use] checks, credit cards, or cash, I can count on my skin color not to work against the appearance of financial reliability.… I can swear, or dress in second hand clothes, or not answer letters, withouthaving people attribute these choices to the bad morals, the poverty, or the illiteracy of my race.

I started to see her point. Okay, maybe all of those privileges hadn’t been mine, but under the umbrella of my mother’s whiteness, the world had been a different, more accepting, place than it might have been otherwise.

When I was alone with my father, we visited restaurants  and little shops in Harlem—which was mostly black at the time. It was a world apart from the Englewood, New Jersey pool club my mother’s friend belonged to, where Mom and I went almost every day in the summer. As a child, I felt equally welcome in both places. However, if the whole family had shown up together in either location, there might have been stares or even questions.

My father taught me to be aware—and sometimes wary–of racism, that I might be treated differently because of my color. But my mother took me everywhere; the hostility, if there was any—was subtle enough for me not to notice. I believed I belonged anywhere my mother did.

The stories of black and biracial children raised by white parents are as varied as humanity itself. I know my own, but am curious about others. For this reason I’ve started a project I’m calling Under the “White Privilege” Umbrella: Children of Color in their White Parents’ World.

As part of the project I have created a survey where I ask adults of color, like myself, who were raised by at least one white parent, to reflect on their childhoods. My purpose is to understand the experience of growing up black or biracial** in the care and company of a white parent, to learn whether–and how–any of us benefited from the day to day privileges our white parents might have experienced.

*If you are between the ages of 18 and 70, identify as biracial or mixed, the product of a white parent and a black parent, or if you are adopted, either black or biracial/black-white, and raised by white parents, interracially married parents (one of whom is white), or by a single, white parent), I would love to hear from you.

Please note, I have no hypothesis to support and no political agenda. And here is the link to my survey.

**The reason I’m only including black and white in this project–at first at least–is to understand whether parental “white privilege,” dilutes the very specific biases directed toward blacks.

To Dance Again: Return to Self

teaching at MAD LOM

A few years back, when I started this blog about body image and identity, I was thinking a lot about my relationship to ballet. It defined me from late childhood, though adolescence and into my late twenties. It was my niche, my career, until I left to find out who I was without it.

To recap: some time in 2012, after who-can-even-count how many years of not dancing, a friend lured me back to ballet class. I was flooded with all kinds of emotions—excitement, dread, nostalgia—but most of all, an overpowering sense of return-to-self.

Return-to-self isn’t anything I learned about in social work school, but I’d have to define it as a process of acute identity repair.

Earlier this week, I had a conversation with a sixty-something-year-old guy on the table next to mine at physical therapy. I was there for my knees—the culprits who’d distanced me from ballet. He was there for a leg or back injury, I never asked what. I should mention that my physical therapist, to distract patients from their agony, has large-screened TVs on every wall, all synced, streaming sit-coms from the 1990’s—Friends, Frasier, Everybody Loves Raymond. Depending on the hour of your appointment, you can usually predict what will be playing.

At the time of my narrative, Will and Grace was on. After my neighbor and I shared a chuckle over Karen’s alcohol-fueled antics, he mused about how the country had changed since the show had aired.

“You can’t make cracks about alcoholism anymore,” lamented the guy with the back-or-leg injury. “You can’t even say words like Jew or Black on primetime without a lawsuit.”

Whether that’s true or not, I kept listening. Soon, the conversation led to the guy sharing some of his history with me.  He’d been an outdoor sports guy, he said. Hunting, boating, motorcycle racing. Sure, he’d suffered various wounds from these high-risk diversions. He’d been shot Cheney-style more than once (he showed me a shoulder scar), thrown from bikes and boats—all minor events he’d shrugged off at the time. But the injury he faced now (again, he did not specify, but later I saw he walked with a severe limp) had sidelined him from everything he loved to do. Everything.

“But my faith is in him,” he aimed a thumb at our PT, “and Him.” He re-directed said thumb toward the ceiling. “You watch. I’ll get back on that bike if it’s the last thing I do.”

I could see he meant it. Getting back on his motorcycle was worth that much to him. Life just wasn’t life without the thrill-rides he loved. That I understood.

For me, the sine qua non endeavor was ballet, as I wrote back in 2012, when I went back to ballet for the first time. I didn’t stick with it back then; my knees wouldn’t permit it. But I kept ballet in my heart, blogging about it, watching my favorites on YouTube, penning a novel about teenage ballet dancers in New York City. Through my characters, I still lived ballet, still danced in my mind and through my fingers on the keyboard. I kept thinking, should I try dancing again? Or should I let this be enough? I ran for exercise, so it wasn’t like I was completely sedentary. (Running, oddly, has no negative impact on my knees.) But every so often I’d wonder: is it really over? Will I never dance again?  That sounded so sad, so final. I pushed the thought away, rather than try to challenge it.

I still dreamed I was dancing, though. One night I even dreamed I was still good. I got back my arabesque, my turns, my elevation. The very next day, I got an email from a friend, a former dancer who runs a dance, theater and drumming school in town. Would I teach ballet for her one night a week, she wanted to know? Two classes, for ten to twelve year old girls? I thought it over and rose to the challenge. How could I possibly say no? Especially after the dream I’d had.

So back again I went. It’s been over a month. I never thought I’d love teaching children to do something that could be painful and frustrating as well as beautiful. But, guess what? I do. Because I value ballet for its elegance, its purity and the way it lets you merge with the music, I believe I’m giving these children something precious. I’m stricter than I thought I’d be, but also loving, because I can see that they love what I’m sharing with them. I don’t allow them to not point their feet; I don’t allow them to give up. But I do lavish praise on effort and hard work. I say things my teachers used to say—grow taller as you plié, drop the tailbone, roll back your shoulders and keep breathing!—and I mean them.

I have begun taking a weekly ballet class in addition to the ones I teach. What has happened is curious and hard to describe. I don’t do everything full-out, but as I dance, I can almost hear my soul clicking into place.

I still have my psychotherapy practice; I am still writing fiction—both of which I love. But now, the dancer in me is back from hibernation.

So what about you? How many years has it been since you did that thing you used to live for? It might have been a hobby or a passion—dirt-biking, fly fishing or found-object sculpting—any activity that completed you, that was your dessert after a hard work week. Maybe you performed with a band whose members all had day jobs. Maybe you wrote poetry you never shared with anyone, but that sustained you nevertheless. Or maybe you were one of the lucky few whose passion—be it acting or football—was once your career.

What took you away from that passion? An injury? The practical reality of needing to make more money? Lack of time? Maybe you can’t immerse yourself in the activity like you once did, but there might be a way to reconnect yourself with it. For example, one woman I danced with years ago, benched by a back injury, became a dance photographer. A friend and former performer—another psychotherapist—writes plays in her “spare time.”

If you ever look back on the days when that activity was part of your life, and think: That was when I was most fully me, you deserve this. Dust off your old passion and find a way to take it back, in any way you still can. Whatever it is, I wish you hope, courage, and a safe return to your Self.

Don’t hate your Thighs, Baby!

DSC00276


 

I almost rolled my eyes at the PC police. Granted, as a member of three at-one-time-or-another oppressed groups, I tend to applaud the PC police. When something is politically incorrect, that means it has the power to hurt someone. And why is it okay to hurt someone if only to get a laugh out of someone else who’s standing there going, “Lighten up already?”

But this time, I almost said, “Lighten up already.”

Until I thought the issue over for half a second. The issue is a onesie for babies, printed with the phrase: “I HATE MY THIGHS.”

It’s funny, okay? It’s funny because it’s so ludicrous. I mean, who doesn’t love fat thighs on a baby? And what baby has any opinion whatsoever about his or her thighs? What baby even knows he or she has thighs? I am sure that’s what the people at WryBaby were thinking when they created said onesie as part of their infant apparel line, marketed at new parents and their friends.  I am sure they did not expect the uproar that came.  Who, us? Fat-shaming babies?

Were people really getting up in arms about baby clothes? I wondered. Even if the baby did have body image issues (like that could seriously happen) babies can’t read!

But then, I remembered who else might be reading. The babies’ older siblings and cousins, for a few. My daughter could read by the time she was five. I used to stand in line at the A+P checkout with her, wishing I could cover up all the tabloid headlines waxing catastrophic about Jessica Simpson’s cellulite. Check out all the best and worst beach bodies! Guess who gained a hundred pounds? (Answer on page 27.) My daughter would study the pictures, read the headlines and then ask me questions I had to come up with answers for.

“Mommy, why does it say Kirstie Balloons?”

“She was blowing them up for a birthday party.” Thinking fast, Mom.

Remembering those days, I could only imagine what a newly reading four-year-old might think about seeing her baby brother suited up to declare loathing for his own little gams. Kids that age are concrete thinkers, yet absorb every piece of information around them. Wondering why Baby Ezra hates his thighs might lead a young child to wonder if he or she should start hating his or her own thighs.

Doesn’t seem like a big deal? Think I should lighten up? Take a joke? Well, maybe you’re right about that. Often, it takes much more than a little joke to set body image issues and disordered eating in motion. But, just as often, all it takes is a passing comment, a few misguided words.

Just saying.

P.S. Since the controversy, WryBaby has replaced the onesie with one that makes the healthy declaration: “I Love My Legrolls.”

For Canines of Mixed Ethnic Heritage

IMG_0121He’s a golden doodle?” said the woman with the boxer, eyeing my sweet, black-and-white puppy with the same skepticism my mother had faced when I was little. Back then, everyone wondered how I—this brown, curly-haired baby—could belong to my white, straight-haired mother.

“He doesn’t look very golden to me,” said the boxer lady.

“Well he is,” I could almost hear my mom responding. Short, sweet and a little indignant. Just like she handled people who questioned my parentage.

I, on the other hand, lunged into an explanation. “He’s a quarter golden retriever and three quarters mini poodle. His parents were bred from black and white parti poodles. So …” Did the boxer lady need such detail? Did she deserve the lowdown on my puppy’s ancestry?

Of course not. But her question caught me off guard, triggering something in me. An age old response to having my own ancestry questioned.

When Rico came home I thought I was prepared for everything. I’d been researching puppy care for over a year, grilling every dog owner I knew—and some I didn’t know—for tips. I’d learned about crate-training, treat-training, leashes and harnesses, apple spray, and chew toys. I’d researched vets and arranged my schedule to accommodate a “new baby,” which is how everyone said a new puppy would feel.

We’d been trying for a rescue dog for some time also, getting turned down again and again because I’d never owned a dog before, I did not have a vet in place, and because my last pets (the gerbils) had perished in a house fire. And—the ultimate deal-killer for pet rescue organizations—we had children under fifteen. Finally we bit the bullet and started researching goldendoodle breeders. When we found a reputedly great one, I looked on the website for “waiting puppies” rather than signing up for an upcoming litter. You could click on the link and watch a YouTube video of each golden retriever-poodle mix pup interacting with the breeder’s young grandson. I fell for Rico immediately.

A mini-goldendoodle expected to top out at about thirty-five pounds (he’s thirty-three), Rico was sweet and playful with a curly coat—predicted not to shed much, which was a good thing for my husband’s and daughter’s allergies. Though plenty of pups on the website were golden goldendoodles, ranging in hue from off-white to rich amber, Rico and his litter mates were black and white, like Snoopy and Harry the Dirty Dog and the Pokey Little Puppy. Like us too.  Both his parents were half “parti” poodle, meaning black and white spotted.

Rico is a party dog it turns out. He’s a total charmer, loves people, loves other dogs, is even gentle with our neighbors’ toddler twins. He doesn’t chew shoes or furniture. He slept through the night and potty-trained with relative ease. His only vice—kind of a big one—is that he loves to eat debris. Sticks, rocks, socks, ace bandages—a habit that’s sent him to the pet ER more than once. And yes, everyone at the ER loves him too.

None of us can imagine family life without him. He fits us perfectly. As my son says, “he’s even a quarter black and three quarters white like me.” True. But that’s just what I wasn’t prepared for: having the same conversations about Rico’s heritage as I have about my children’s and my own.

For example, this is what people say about my son:

“Wow! You really can’t see the black in him.”

And about Rico:

“Wow! You can’t see the golden retriever in him at all!”

About my daughter:

“That hair is beautiful. It must be a lot of work.”

About Rico:

“That coat is beautiful. It must get so matted though.”

And the kicker (seriously this happened): “We were thinking our goldendoodle’s coat might get curly too. But Misty has that nice, smooth golden retriever fur. You can barely see the poodle in her.”

Now substitute the words “biracial child” for “goldendoodle” and “black” for “poodle” and you have something like what my mother used to hear when I was a kid.

“Are you sure he’s part golden retriever?” (Are you sure she’s yours?)

And I explain. In varying degrees of detail. You might ask, WHY must I answer to these curious passers-by and dog owners? Why do I need to answer prying questions about my dog’s, my own or my children’s ancestry? Why can’t I be more like my mother and give a simple—if snarky—response?

In Maria Root’sBill of Rights for People of Mixed Heritage,” it says specifically, “I have the right to self-identify. To identify myself differently than strangers expect me to identify.”

In other words, I have the right not to explain my heritage. As someone who does not look mixed, I am called upon to do this less frequently than my racially ambiguous-looking mixed friends. Since I look black, I don’t get asked “what are you?” very often. People assume I’m black and leave it at that. It’s only when I mention a different piece of my background—that I’m Ashkenazi Jewish on my mother’s side, for example, that people ask How is that possible?  

Similarly, people assume Rico is a poodle or a Portuguese water dog. No one means anything by it; no one is judging him. But the word Golden hits strangers the same way Jewish hits them with me. Rico couldn’t care less. The words he knows are sit, stay, leave-it, drop-it, walk, bone, and Ruby (the little dog next door). But I care.  His heritage is what it is—not to be questioned any more than mine or my children’s.

photo 3This is why I explain. I explain to be understood. To acknowledge all my heritage, my children’s and my dog’s, not to deny any part, but to embrace all, even the parts that are unseen.

For the Soon-to-be Obsolete Mom Who “Leaned Out”

images[1]So you leaned out—not in. Now what?

For some time now, you’ve been a full-time mom—A.K.A. a cooking, errand-running, laundry-doing, schedule-making, care-taking, house-yard-and-pet-managing chauffeur. Or maybe you’ve been a mostly-full-time mom, working part-time like I have, arranging your work schedule around your kids, knowing yours is a second income, and sometimes a wash when you factor in expenses like childcare. How often have you looked at back wistfully at your pre-kid life, when you put on nice shoes, skirts and blazers every day for work, when your hair was coiffed, when you had fast-paced, intelligent discussions with other adults, when you went to the gym on your own schedule, and met your spouse for dinner after work without worrying about a sitter? Of course, back then, all you wanted was a baby. You got one—or two or more—and the subsequent years have been the most fulfilling imaginable. You wouldn’t trade a single day.

Also, you’re thankful to have been in a position to “lean-out” in the first place. Not everyone gets such a choice. You’re grateful to have a spouse whose income supports the family, grateful to be able to devote yourself to parenting.

Still, some part of you looks back on your full-time-work days, thinking what a great deal you had. You knew exactly what your purpose was, who you were. Your nose may have been to the grindstone, but that was what it took to compete in the “real world.” And now, every weekday morning, looking out of your kitchen window, you can see your leaning-in neighbor—in her suit and smart haircut—dashing, briefcase in hand, for her train to that same “real world.” There she goes, you think. She’s still in the running, still excelling. Fully competent, responsible for her family’s economic well-being, dependent on no one. Her children look up to her. They miss her when she travels, are still excited when she comes home. With a queasy mix of guilt and jealousy, you think, there but for my own choices go I.

And where did you go, exactly? Besides the pediatrician’s, the barber’s, the Tae kwon do studio, the PTA executive board meetings, the grocery store, the playground, Petco and Home Depot? Besides driving to two thousand piano lessons, three thousand dance classes, four thousand soccer practices and thirty thousand playdates? Sometimes it feels like the self you once had got submerged under all those obligations, crushed under the tires of your own SUV. I used to be competent, you think. I used to get respect. But the fact is, the daily endeavors of full-or-mostly-full-time mothers frequently go unnoticed and unapplauded because they are a given.

You and I know that supporting the status-quo of a family takes enormous effort and stamina. But if you do it right, no one else notices. It’s a mother’s job to render herself obsolete, right? Bit by bit, you’re supposed to do less and less for your children, so that gradually they learn to master their own lives and become happy, self-assured people who can care for themselves. That’s the challenge of being a full-or-mostly-full-time mom. If they don’t need you to do everything for them anymore—if you’ve achieved your goal of obsolescence—then who the heck are you?

I remember pushing my daughter’s stroller through our Brooklyn neighborhood, later pushing my son’s through our New Jersey suburb, thinking Now I am complete. Now I am fully me. I had wanted to be a mother so badly, for so long—after working in schools and adoption agencies for seven years—I felt actualized at last. Most of my leaning-out friends feel the same way.

Now, however, our kids are big, at least bigger than they were. We still drive them some places, but they walk to soccer practice and no longer need us to make playdates for them. We have no hand in their social lives whatsoever. As they race out the door, heading to school (without us taking them there), we shout after them that they must text to keep us apprised of their after school plans.

Then they’re gone. And here we are. Ready for something else to make us complete. What will it be? You’re a different you than you were before you had kids. You can’t go back, so what does forward look like?

Some moms look at what they used to do and combine it with the life experience they’ve gained over their parenting years. For example, a former neighbor whose child had verbal delays went back to school to become a speech-language pathologist after spending years immersed in that discipline. Another mom I know followed her passion for fashion and is now an executive for a clothing company. Still another mom—a former attorney who has spent several years advocating for her special-needs child, demanding services that the school district was slow to provide—is considering a run for office.

It might seem like a luxury to take stock and branch out like this. In most cases it does require significant resources. But some of my mom friends, suddenly under pressure to support themselves and their children following a divorce or job loss on the part of their partners, have done it out of necessity, scraping together help and support from friends and family.

A single mom whose ex is much less of a financial support than he could be,  took out loans for a degree in social work. Through connections, she landed her dream job while still in the MSW program. Now that she has her license, her career is moving in a direction she’s happy with.

Another mom turned her parenting blog—begun when she was pregnant with her second child, chasing the first around a playground—into a parent coaching business. Another blogger and mom-friend began researching her ancestry, blogged her efforts, and has transformed her life in the process. She has written a book and given lectures on her family’s remarkable history and the process of her search. (You can read her amazing blog here.)

These women looked at what they knew, combined it with who they were and what they loved. Each added some research and a little elbow grease and gave herself a second act in the work force. On her own terms.

What would it look like if you filled out this home questionnaire:

 

What did I do before I was a Mom?

What kind of paid and unpaid work have I done since becoming a mom?

What else have I done that might look nifty on a resume? (e.g. PTA treasurer, Local Soup Kitchen Volunteer Coordinator, or—in my case, choreographer of elementary school musicals.)

What have I learned about myself since becoming a Mom?

What skills and interests have I discovered?

What are my Passions?

 When you’re done, look to see if there is any overlap among the categories.  If so, is there a field out there that might combine your special mix of skills and passions? If not, is there one thing on your list that jumps out at you, begging for exploration? Once you cast your net wide—looking at all possibilities—the next step is to focus. Pick something, zero in and deepen.

To be honest, I didn’t “lean” in or out specifically. Instead, I’ve “leaned” a whole bunch of different directions. I’ve been a dancer, a choreographer, a teacher, a writer and a clinical social worker/psychotherapist. Instead of doing so many different things, I could have gotten farther in each by “zeroing in” more. For every field I’ve sampled, there’s an alternate reality I can picture where I’ve focused all my professional energy on that one thing—writing, psychotherapy, ballet—and achieved a higher level success. My fellow social work trainees at the Ackerman Institute are now faculty members who have published papers on their specialty areas of family therapy. Those I started out with in the corps of various ballet companies are now renowned ballet teachers and choreographers. n particular, a fellow classmate from the first and only creative writing course I took in college, is now a literary household name.  Jodi Picoult.

As for me, I’m a psychotherapist with a private practice I keep manageable enough that I have time to write, be available to my children, and teach ballet (a new development I’ve added to my plate). Or I’m a writer who’s a licensed psychotherapist and ballet teacher. Or a ballet teacher who … you get the idea. It’s working for me. Though I’ll admit, it would be nice to have a simple answer when someone asks what I do, there’s no part of my mix-n-match career that I would give up.

It’s an amazing thing to put together the pieces of you and—with equal parts focus, patience and effort—begin a journey to the next phase of your career. You’re doing it for yourself, but you’re also modeling something invaluable for your children.