Step-parenting sucks, until it doesn't.

Meet Annie... my teacher, who happens to be my daughter.

Thank you for your patience, even unknowingly. I know I’ve been gone for some time. I don’t owe you an explanation, but I will let you in on what transpired. Just not today. But in a special, soon coming announcement that will come stacked with a bonus gift. Stay tuned. I think you’re going to like it, maybe even love it.

What I can say is, I am unlocking a new level of honesty here at Subtle Lessons. In an unexpected and magical way, this writing practice is deepening and greatly expanding my awareness. I’m beginning to realize my openness in writing is directly correlated to the penetration of honest living off the page. As within, so without. The more I accept myself, the easier it is to be Myself. And, as you know, a large part of my Being is writing. We’ll touch on this more next week, I promise.  

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This post is dedicated to my parents, who did the best they could with the tools they had. Thank you for everything you provided me, blessings and curses alike, that shaped me into the woman I am. Annie doesn’t fully understand yet, but she, too, is grateful.

Meet Annie. But, to me, she’s Buki Boo.

Annie is the coolest kid I know. She is infinitely curious, silly as all hell and effortlessly stylish. Her depth of self-awareness and emotional intelligence are remarkable. One of our favorite topics of conversation is the nuance of relationships. [For my future self] Right now, she’s a month into 4th grade. She’s into manga, tennis, and wide leg pants—you should’ve saved your JNCO’s for her. Just this morning she asked you a question about the tradition of women taking men’s names in marriage. After you answered, she retorted, “I’m not doing that.” My rebel girl.

For those of you who didn’t know, I’m a mom. Actually, a stepmom. Well, technically, unofficially, since I am not married. As church folk would say, “I’m shackin’ up.” LOL. I have been referred to as a stepmother or bonus mom. Annie’s dad’s girlfriend, even. In usage, these insufficient titles label a highly unique relationship typically accompanied by a perceptible awkwardness as a nod to biological difference. I attribute this awkwardness to our collective discomfort of divorce—the severance from the mythical sacredness of the “nuclear family.” You know that’s all made up right? And we out here feeling weird over relationship dynamics that, while complex, are regular. That being said, fck all that and call it what you want, I’m a mom. But I didn’t know it, until this week.

Being a parent is challenging enough. Being a stepparent is WILD. It is a distinct familial circumstance and role one assumes that involves many unspoken expectations, conflicts, triggers, and discomforts. To become a stepparent involves agreement to a role of dissonance. Once you agree, there is a critical choice to be made regarding your commitment to the arduous work of reconciliation. Put simply, I had to answer the question, “Are you going to be a mom or a stepmom?”

At the initial formation of our family, I was clear in my approach to being a stepparent. I did not want to force anything. I desired for our relationship to grow organically, lest it reduce into a performance. Although it felt shameful to admit, I was not about to pretend to love her if I didn’t feel it, as reflected in our level of observable intimacy and affection. If she didn’t want to hug me goodbye, I would not force her. If I didn’t want to say “I love you,” I would not force myself. Creating the space for love to blossom in its time through a commitment to sincerity caused a great sense of vulnerability within me. In love for my partner, being accepted by his one-and-only naturally became a significant source of validation. You know, the all too familiar worry of stepparents in television and film, “I hope the kids will like me.” But you can’t smush a family together and expect to immediately live happily ever after. Humans don’t work like that. To forgo a sugary version of performative “love” required an immense amount of self-compassion for the ways I didn’t instinctually embody a loving, maternal figure. Unfortunately, that necessary self-compassion—I did not have. So, yeah, it was a rough transition. The record on repeat was a cacophony of cruel criticisms, like “What is wrong with you for not immediately loving this bright and brilliant little girl?” For years, I judged myself harshly for not possessing the maternal instinct I assumed came built-in. It was my partner’s patience and grace, allowing me to take my time and his trust in my ability to rise to the occasion that carried me through. “I know who you are,” he describes, as his basis of trust.

I asked my best friend when she first recognized I was truly a mom to Annie. She pinpointed, “When you quit your job.” Y’all remember the post about me holding my pee because emails? LOL. In case you missed it, I was in a terrible mental state during the pandemic. I think I am still coming out of denial that it served as my rock bottom. My anxiety skyrocketed over the course of the 2020-21. I was working stressfully long days, ruminating on worst case scenarios of my loved ones dying, under immense pressure at work trying to prove myself, bombarded with screens and digital communications, absorbing collective fear, unhealthily caretaking my colleagues, and trying to maintain my sanity being locked up in the house with my family 24/7. I know y’all know how this feels, because you did it too, in your own way. Despite the numbness I felt from overstimulation, I clearly recognized my relationship with Annie was suffering as a result. Our daily interactions simply did not feel good. I was continually annoyed with her, critical, controlling and on edge. While on zoom calls, I caught myself snapping at her for making noise like any other energetic and bored six-year-old would. After work, with my irritability and exhaustion off the charts, any whimper, whine, or even jubilation from her tiny body would grate on me. Y’all, I’m embarrassed to say… but I became the icy, evil stepmother.

Mirror, mirror on the wall, whose the bitchiest of them all? Ya girl.

Thankfully, as you know, I quit that job. While a majority of my time has been spent internally deep-sea diving toward healing, a large portion of my time has also been with Annie. As I get to know myself, I have the privilege to get to know her too. It’s sickening the amount of time we are required to spend away from our kids in order to survive. No shame. Divorce rates and the threat of the nuclear structure isn’t to blame for the deterioration of the family, it’s the insidious, interpersonal consequence of capitalism and the fool’s choice. The pandemic served as a shock to my awareness of what was important to me. My health and my loved ones are the only two answers I walked away with. Once I had evidence of the other aspects of my life that arrested my attention, I chose different. I chose me. I chose my family.

Late last fall, after an intense shadow work session focused on a particular aspect of my childhood trauma and a frank conversation with my partner, I felt a call to apologize to Annie for an uncomfortable exchange we had over hot chocolate the night before. Yes. I was trippin’ over hot chocolate and Annie was being eight. The joys of parenthood are the silly circumstances that unfold to show you a clear reflection of yourself. The next night, despite being terrified, I initiated a conversation with Annie to apologize for my behavior that night. It can be terrifying to communicate with a child when you were raised to only be spoken to.

I explained to Annie that I was aware of the negative, harsh energy I send toward her. I apologized and shared my desire to learn how to control myself. She listened in silence. Then, I asked a favor.

“Can you find a word to say when you feel that sharp energy coming from me, as a cue for me to self-reflect?”

Her gaze fixed in the eternity of a blink.

“Defrost,” she uttered with conviction.

The ice began to melt that day.  

At this stage of my parenting journey, I was just beginning to take accountability for my emotions instead of blaming Annie for triggering them. I began to observe, with non-judgment, how certain frequencies in her crying or whining triggered my nervous system. The more proficient I became at tuning into my body, I would then get curious about the accompanying emotion arising, memories tied to the charge, or automated scripts that formed my internal dialogue. After clearing these old energies plus an increased sense of presence in my everyday life, my eyes began to open. Instead of allowing distortions to misinterpret our interactions, collapsing into control dramas, I could finally see Annie and lucidly engage with her in the present moment. She is a pure delight and now, we have so much fun together. In my early 20’s, I committed to doing the inner work toward healing for the sake of my future family. The whole denial thing may have impeded my progress, but intention is a powerful force. Little did I know, doing the work alongside my child, is key to healing my inner child.

As humans, we are all accountable to one another, but especially so within a family. The defrost story is one form of what my family calls “integrity checks,” practical methods to keep us in alignment with Love. When people are not in their power, they unconsciously grasp for power in absolution of consequence— an avoidance of accountability. But there are indeed consequences for the lack of accountability within intimate relationships. When parents fail to heal their inner child, it leads them to play power games with their children; the consequence is the poor nature of the relationship itself. The day I decided to be a mom was the day I understood a game isn’t worth the gift of seeing my daughter.  

I’ll never forget the first day I saw Annie. After picking her up from school, I surprised her with a mini adventure to our favorite metaphysical shop. It was our first real date. She wasn’t a newborn, but as she sat alongside me in the car, legs long past dangling, she radiated an indescribable beauty and perfection that I could never unsee. My heart flooded with a deep, warm gratitude to see her. She was so beautiful, I cried. Then I cried harder because I felt so guilty it took me that long to see her. That’s some mom shit right there.

I love you Buki Boo! You are my favorite teacher.

Thanks for reading! If you likey and think my perspective could be helpful to someone you know, please share Subtle Lessons with them.

If you see me, I see you.