a true story about autonomy
All By Myself
The clock is ticking and Mia is jamming a shoe onto the wrong foot, waving my hands away like I'm the enemy.
the realization
I finally saw it. My "help" felt like a takeover to her. The second I stopped grabbing and handed her a small choice instead, she wasn't fighting me anymore.
We were late, and Mia was on the floor with her shoe half on, wrong foot, heel crushed under her toes. I reached in to just fix it, quick, the way I always do. She yanked her foot back and screamed. To me it was help. To her it was me taking the whole thing away from her.
have you ever felt this way too?
The faster I moved, the louder she got. So I stopped. I took a breath, sat down on the floor next to her, and made my voice small. No grabbing. Both my hands in my lap where she could see them.
Then I gave her back the part that was hers. "This shoe first, or that one?" I said, and I told her what I could see she wanted. That she wanted to do it herself. "I'll wait," I told her. And I meant it. I sat there while she worked, offering my hands only as an invitation, not a rescue.
Both shoes on. Wrong feet, honestly, but on. By herself. She stood up so proud, and we walked out the door holding hands instead of one of us in tears.
what I found myself saying
"This shoe first, or that one?"
"You want to do it your own way. I'll wait."
"I'll keep my hands right here if you need me."
