RETURN to the MOUNTAIN
Less than one month later my feet made it back to the mountain.
Nestled in the San Bernardino National Forest, this was the mountain where I hiked in defiance of my previous failure, questioned my resistance to Xanax, and eventually found myself proudly at the top.
I ‘did it afraid’ that day and won, but I left with a nagging question.
My husband and I didn’t take up hiking until we were faced with a season of entertaining two active and growing boys - nothing like nature to tire out overactive legs. As a result, I had never been on any sort of moderate hike without my flesh and blood in tow. This would be the first adults-only endeavor and my mind held tight to the question our last hike begged.
Why was I so afraid?
Was it the mountain or the possibility that one of my boys could fall off of it?
Turns out it’s mainly the latter.
Nearing the end of the narrow and steep leg of the trail I realized that while I felt challenged, the fear was not the same. The mountain heightened my awareness of ability, but it did not threaten to turn me away. I did not feel at ease, but neither did I feel terror. What had changed?
No kids to protect.
No ‘babies’ to guard against falls.
No trying to bubble-wrap my loved ones as they journey out into the world.
Holding this realization, my hike became more of an exploration in mindfulness than a wrestling of fear, each deliberate step unravelling my notion of protection as I considered my role in the lives of two growing men.
At 16 and 18 years old my two are far more man than boy. Each tops me by at least eight inches and their athletic, muscular frames leave little question as to who is actually able to protect who. I spent their infancy and childhood rightly bent on their survival and protection, but nearing the end of their teen years I can see that same drive is tearing at my heart.
The instinct that once defined my role in giving life now threatens to limit it. The protective drive that once spurned me toward action now attempts to paralyze. As my feet moved rhythmically forward on that dusty trail that day, I realized I would have to find another way.
Another way to hold, another way to protect, another way to be a mom.
What does is mean to parent a child and then release them to be their own adult? What does is mean to reframe one’s role as mom? To metaphorically ‘let go’ while at the same time knowing there will always be holding on? Always fiercely and firmly holding on.
Since that day on the mountain I have talked to others that are further down life’s road than me. Does a mom ever set down the desire to protect? Not as far as I can tell. I’m told it looks different, sometimes arguably harder.
But the goal remains - to release while holding, to allow freedom while forever remaining a refuge, to open one’s hands while knowing you will never be able to fully pull them away.
Externally I have learned to quiet my protective nature, to hold to myself the comments I think could hedge and protect, to allow my boys to succeed and fail and fall and soar into being men. It’s my internal world that still needs attention. ‘Momma Bear’ was a switch that flicked on at the birth of my children and I’m finding it hard to quiet its internal dialogue.
Which is to say I write not with answers but with questions. There is a path ahead and while I do not know its direction, I know where I hope it leads - to a gradual letting go and a new understanding of my role as mom.
All hopefully without driving myself crazy.