On Being Alone (Together)

"Love, 

The Three Musketeers (NOT Four Musketeers!)"

Thirty years later, I still remember the end of the breakup note from my three sixth grade friends. I still feel the ache of rejection in my chest. The scalding tears, the self-recrimination, the shame and embarrassment. 

Thirty years later, part of me is still that 12-year-old girl sitting in the corner of her bedroom, back against the door, weeping over her first rejection letter. 

That’s the weird thing about rejection, isn't it? It lives hidden in our memories, quietly locked away in a dusty room. We don't think about it, don't even remember it's there. . . until suddenly we do remember. Triggered by pain, the door flies open like something out of a horror movie, and we find ourselves transported back in time.  

Last week my daughter shared heartbreak over being excluded by her classmates. Most of the kids in her class have been together since pre-K, and my adult brain knows it makes sense for them to be territorial. My adult brain knows they don’t mean anything by ignoring my daughter. My adult brain knows they’re just children themselves. 

But I feel my adolescent anger rise anyway, the voice from that room now railing - 

Who are they to treat you that way? 

Who do they think they are?! 

The adolescent in me shakes a fist at their arrogance, daydreams about marching into the classroom, ready for battle. 

And hearing that raving voice, it’s a struggle to comfort my child, to say instead,  

I’ve been there before. 

I’ve felt rejected, too. 

I know what it’s like not to be chosen, not to be invited, not to be one of the Three Musketeers. 

Let me tell you my story. 

But the mom in me, the adult, knows that’s what she needs to hear - and what I need to hear, too: 

That you’re blessed with other true friendships, 

that you’ll get through this more resilient than before, 

that maybe somehow, ultimately it’s for your good. 

In speaking those words, I feel the calm settle over the 12-year old inside me, too. 

And I remember that sometimes the thing that connects us most is how alone we’ve all felt before. Sometimes the most healing words to hear are also the most painful to share. 

And sometimes the only way to quiet the voice in that hidden room is to open the door, invite her out, and bring her stories to light.

 

Walking this road together, 

Becki