Thankfully, I remembered the power of imagination.
ME: This is frustrating.
AMMA: I know!
ME: Babe, why do you imagine Tommy might not do his homework?
AMMA: Because he is irresponsible.
ME: Okay. Do you think that you’re responsible?
AMMA: Yes. I am. I always do my homework and I never fall asleep in class. I would NEVER do that.
ME: Okay. How did you learn to always get your homework done?
AMMA: You taught me to do it right after school. And you remind me every day!
ME: Okay. Do you imagine that Tommy has parents at home who can sit down with him and make sure his homework is done like yours do?
AMMA: He must not.
ME: Also, baby, why do you imagine Tommy is so tired during the day?
AMMA: He must stay up too late.
ME: How late do you imagine you’d stay up at night if you didn’t have us at home making you go to bed?
AMMA: I’d stay up all night!
ME: What do you imagine might happen to you during the day?
AMMA: I’d probably fall asleep a lot.
ME: Yeah. Maybe you and Tommy aren’t all that different after all. You’re responsible, Amma. But you’re also really lucky.
Amma still gets annoyed at Tommy, but she has her imagination to keep her soft and open. She knows how to imagine her way into his shoes. I’m not sure it matters if what she imagines is true. I just know that the softening matters. She is learning how to use her imagination to bridge the gap between her experience and the experience of another, and this skill will serve her, her relationships, and the world. I think a kid who practices imagining why a classmate keeps forgetting his homework might become an adult who can imagine why a father might risk everything to cross a desert with nothing but his child on his back.
Dear Glennon,
My teenage daughter just called us from her boarding school and told us that she’s gay. We are happy for her. We believe that love is love. My problem is this: My parents are staying at our home for Christmas. They are fundamentalists who I know will spend the holiday trying to shame and “convert” her. How do I handle this?
Respectfully,
M
Dear M,
When Abby and I fell in love, we kept it to ourselves for a while. Then, when we decided to build a life together, we began to share our relationship with others: our children, our parents, our friends, the world. People had big feelings about our news. Sometimes their responses would make me feel afraid, defensive, angry, too exposed.
One night, Abby, who knows I understand life best through metaphors, said this:
“Glennon, I want us to think of our love as an island. On our island is you, me, the kids—and real love. The kind of love novels are written about and people spend lifetimes trying to find. The holy grail. The most precious thing. The thing. We have it. It’s still young and new, so we’re going to protect it. Imagine that we’ve surrounded our island with a moat filled with alligators. We will not lower the drawbridge to let anyone’s fear onto our island. On our island is only us and love. Leave anything else on the other side of the moat. Over there, it can’t hurt us. We’re here, happy on our island. Let them scream fear or hate, whatever. We can’t even hear it. Too much music. Only love in, babe.”
Every time an internet troll, journalist, or fundamentalist minister shared self-righteous judgment, I’d smile and imagine his tomato-red face screaming on the other side of the moat, while Abby, the kids, and I kept dancing on our island. None of it could touch us. But things got more complicated when my best friend, my champion, my mother showed up on the other side of the moat, carrying fear in both her hands, asking us to lower the drawbridge.
My mother lives in Virginia and we live in Florida, but we talk every single day. We are intricately intertwined in each other’s lives. Recently we were talking before bed, and she asked about my plans for the following morning. I mentioned that I had a haircut scheduled and I was thinking about getting bangs. We said good night. The next morning, my phone rang at 6:00.
“I’m sorry to call so early, sweetheart, but I’ve been up all night worrying. It’s the bangs, honey. You don’t do well with bangs. You cut them and then you regret them, and it becomes a whole thing. Your life is stressful enough already. I am just worried that bangs are the wrong decision for your family, sweetheart.”
If my decision to get bangs had kept my mother up all night, you can imagine her reaction to my decision to divorce my husband and marry a woman. I could hear her fear in every question and in the long silences between her questions. But what about the kids? What will their classmates say? The world can be cruel. She was shaken, and that started to shake me. That day she told me not to get bangs? I didn’t. My mother loves me very, very well, so I’ve always trusted her to know what was right for me.
It’s not the cruel criticism from folks who hate us that scares us away from our Knowing; it’s the quiet concern of those who love us. My mom’s fear started to pull me away from my Knowing. I lost my peace. I became defensive and angry. I spent weeks on the phone with her, explaining myself, trying to convince her that I knew what I was doing and that it would all be okay. One night I was talking to my sister, working myself up, replaying to her my most recent conversation with my mom. My sister interrupted me and said, “Glennon, why are you so defensive? Defensiveness is for people who are afraid that what they have can be taken from them. You are a grown-ass woman. You can have what you want. No one can take this from you. Not even Mom. This is yours, Glennon. Abby is yours.”
We hung up, and I thought: My mother loves me. And she disagrees with me about what is best for me. I am going to have to decide who I trust more: my mother or myself. For the first time in my life, I decided to trust myself—even though that meant moving in direct opposition to my parents. I decided to please myself instead of my parents. I decided to become responsible for my own life, my own joy, my own family. And I decided to do it with love.
That is when I became an adult.
* * *
That night I told Abby, “I’m not going to spend one more second explaining myself or justifying our relationship. Explaining is fear preparing its case, and we are not on trial. No one can take what we have. I can’t convince my parents that we’re okay by talking incessantly about how okay we are. I think the only way to convince anybody you are okay is just to go about being okay and let them witness it. I don’t want to leave our island to be an evangelist for us anymore. It’s too tiring, and every time I go and try to convince other people that we’re fine, I’m not here, with you—being fine. So I’m adding a sign to our island. This one isn’t facing outward at the world, it’s pointing inward, toward us, as a reminder. It says: ‘Only Love Out.’ ”
No Fear In. No Fear Out.
Only Love In. Only Love Out.
* * *
The next day, I stood underneath a tree at my son’s cross-country meet, trying to find relief from the hundred-degree heat. I was on the phone with my mother, and she was asking to come visit her grandchildren. Her tone was controlled, anxious, shaky. She was still worrying and calling that love. She just couldn’t trust my Knowing yet. But for the first time, I did. I trusted my Knowing.
Here is the part of the story in which a mother and a daughter become two mothers:
I say, “Mom. No. You can’t come. You are still afraid and you can’t bring that to us because our children—they’re not afraid. We raised them to understand that love and truth—in any form—are to be honored and celebrated. They haven’t learned the fear you carry, and I won’t have it taught to them through your voice and in your eyes. Your fear that the world will reject our family is causing you to create the very rejection you fear exists. Our children are not carrying the fear that you are
carrying—but if you bring it here, they will help you carry it, because they trust you. I do not want that unnecessary burden to be passed to them.
“Is this the easiest path for me, for Abby, for Craig, for your grandchildren? Of course not. But it’s the truest one. We are making a true and beautiful family and home, and I hope with all of my heart that one day soon you will be able to come enjoy it. But we cannot be the ones to teach you that you can love and accept us. I have to tell you this hard thing, which is that your fear is not my or Abby’s or the children’s problem. My duty as their mother is to make sure it never becomes their problem. We don’t have a problem, Mama. I want you to come to us as soon as you don’t, either.
“This is our last conversation about your fear for us. I love you so much. Go figure it out, Mama. When you are ready to come to our island with nothing but wild acceptance and joy and celebration for our true, beautiful family, we’ll lower the drawbridge for you. But not one second sooner.”
My mother grew quiet for a very long time. Then she said, “I hear what you’ve said. I am going to go think about all of this. I love you.”
We hung up the phone. I stepped out of the shade and walked back to my family.
* * *
M, listen to me.
You have a child on your island who is doing what few teenagers are able to do: She is living from her Touch Tree. Her tree is small, just a sapling on your island. Do not throw open the door and invite in a storm that will take her out before she’s had time to grow roots.
Protect your island for her. She is not yet old enough to be the keeper of the drawbridge; that is still your duty. Do not lower your family’s drawbridge to fear—not even if it’s from people she loves. Especially not when that fear is presented in the name of God.
A woman becomes a responsible parent when she stops being an obedient daughter. When she finally understands that she is creating something different from what her parents created. When she begins to build her island not to their specifications but to hers. When she finally understands that it is not her duty to convince everyone on her island to accept and respect her and her children. It is her duty to allow onto her island only those who already do and who will walk across the drawbridge as the beloved, respectful guests they are.
Tonight, sit down with your cobuilder and decide with honor and intention what you will have on your island and what you will not. Not who your nonnegotiables are but what they are. Do not lower the drawbridge for anything other than what you have decided is permitted on your island, no matter who is carrying it.
Right now, you are being required to choose between remaining an obedient daughter and becoming a responsible mother.
Choose mother. Every damn time from here on out, choose mother.
Your parents had their turn to build their island.
Your turn.
Dear Glennon,
I just brought my baby girl home from the hospital. When I put her down on the floor in her carrier, I forgot how to breathe. I don’t know how to do this. I am so afraid. My mother didn’t love me well. At least once a day I think, Why couldn’t she love me? Was there something wrong with her…or me? What if it was me? How will I ever know how to mother my daughter if I’ve never known mothering love?
H
Dear H,
This is what I know.
Parents love their children. I have met no exceptions.
Love is a river, and there are times when impediments stop the flow of love.
Mental illness, addiction, shame, narcissism, fear passed down by religious and cultural institutions—these are boulders that interrupt love’s flow.
Sometimes there is a miracle, and the boulder is removed. Some families get to experience this Removal Miracle. Many don’t. There is no rhyme or reason. No family earns it. Healing is not the reward for those who love the most or best.
When a parent becomes healthy again, her child begins to feel her love. When the boulder is removed, the water flows again. It’s the way of the river, the way of a parent’s love.
Your parent—your sister, your friend, the one who couldn’t love you—her love was impeded. That love was there—swirling, festering, vicious in its desperation for release. It was there, it is there, all for you. That love exists. It just couldn’t get past the boulder.
You can trust me about this because I have been an impeded river. The boulder of addiction blocked my love, and all my family felt from me was pain and absence. My dad used to ask, Why, Glennon? Why do you lie to my face and treat us so terribly? Do you even love us?
I did. I felt all the love swirling and festering and the pressure of it all felt like it would kill me. But they couldn’t feel any of it. To them, it didn’t exist.
Then I got my Removal, sobriety, which was both a spontaneous miracle and excruciatingly difficult work. Eventually my love was able to flow to my people again. Because I was always the river, not the boulder.
Desperate people often ask me, “How? How did you get sober? What did your family do?”
They tried everything, and none of it had anything to do with my recovery. All the love in the world cannot move a boulder, because the Removal is not between the impeded and the ones who love her. The Removal is strictly between the impeded one and her God.
I am so sorry, H.
You deserved to have the love of your mother delivered to you. You deserved to be soaked through to the bone with her love every day and every night.
But now I need you to listen to me.
The miracle of grace is that you can give what you have never gotten.
You do not get your capacity for love from your parents. They are not your source. Your source is God. You are your own source. Your river is strong.
Soak that baby girl of yours to the bone day and night.
Flow unimpeded.
During my Love Warrior book tour, thousands of readers showed up across the country, expecting me to do what I always did: tell the truth about my life. But for the first time in a decade, they didn’t yet know the truth of my life. I had shared that Craig and I were divorcing, but I had not told them that I had fallen in love with Abby.
I had a choice to make: I could reveal my new relationship before I felt ready, or I could stand in front of my readers and hide the most important thing happening in my life. The first option felt terrifying and also the clear way, because of my One Thing. My One Thing is my sobriety. For me, sobriety is not just about stopping something; it’s about beginning a particular way of life. This way of life requires living in integrity: ensuring that my inner self and outer self are integrated. Integrity means having only one self. Dividing into two selves—the shown self and the hidden self—that is brokenness, so I do whatever it takes to stay whole. I do not adjust myself to please the world. I am myself wherever I am, and I let the world adjust.
I will never promise to be this way or that way, I will only promise to show up, as I am, wherever I am. That’s it, and that’s all. People will like me or not, but being liked is not my One Thing; integrity is. So I must live and tell my truth. Folks will come around or quit coming around. Either way: lovely. Anything or anyone I could lose by telling the truth was never mine anyway. I’m willing to lose anything that requires me to hide any part of myself.
So I decided to tell the world that I was in love with Abby. The night before I made my announcement, one of my teammates said, “Here we go. Tomorrow is the bloodbath.” I understood the trepidation. I knew that folks would be surprised and that they’d have a whole lot of questions and feelings.
Some would say with admiration, “I respect the hell out of you. What gave you the guts to do that?” Others would say with disdain, “I respected the hell out of you. What gave you the right to do that?”
I knew my answer would be the same, either way:
I
left my husband to build a life with Abby for the same reason I left booze to become a mother eighteen years ago. Because suddenly I was able to imagine a truer, more beautiful existence for myself than the one I was living. And my way of life is to dare to imagine the truest, most beautiful life, family, and world—and to then conjure up the courage to make real what I have imagined.
In my thirties, I learned that there is a type of pain in life that I want to feel. It’s the inevitable, excruciating, necessary pain of losing beautiful things: trust, dreams, health, animals, relationships, people. This kind of pain is the price of love, the cost of living a brave, openhearted life—and I’ll pay it.
There is another kind of pain that comes not from losing beautiful things but from never even trying for them.
I’ve felt that kind of pain in my life. I recognize it on others’ faces. I see the longing in the eyes of a woman who is next to her lover but feels totally alone. I see the rage in the eyes of a woman who is not happy but smiles anyway. I see the resignation in the eyes of a woman who is slowly dying for her children instead of living for them. And I hear it. I hear it in the bitterness of a woman who describes faking it so she can get up and finish folding the laundry. I hear it in the desperate tone of a woman who has something to say but has never said it. In the cynicism of a woman who has accepted the injustice she could help change if she were braver. It’s the pain of a woman who has slowly abandoned herself.
I’m forty-four years old now, and I’ll be damned if I’ll choose that kind of pain ever again.
I left my husband and I am building a life with Abby because I’m a grown-ass woman now and I do what the fuck I want. I mean this with deep respect and love—and with the desire that you, too, will do what the fuck you want with your own singular precious life.
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