Showing up with understanding, dignity, and patience

I was three years out from a brain injury when I applied to graduate school.

Despite the years that had passed since my injury (which felt significant at the time and now seems like a blip), I struggled with insomnia, headaches, fatigue, organizing thoughts, and retaining information. I would get to the end of a paragraph without knowing what I had read. Mid-conversation, I'd ask what we were talking about, only to realize I had asked that several times in just a few minutes.

You can imagine that writing my entry essay for graduate school might have been a challenge. The essay question was about a person in history who inspired us and changed how we saw the world.

I wanted to pick someone who would dazzle them and cover up the fact that I sometimes forgot my own name, couldn't sleep for days at a time, and would break down in tears while filling out a simple form in a doctor's office because it was confusing and overwhelming.

When my pen hit the paper, I began writing about someone and something that would never make the history books but changed how I saw the world. I wrote about a day I spent with my mother at her job when I was 12 years old.

We arrived at her office to find a tiny elderly woman leaning on her cane. The woman began screaming that my mother was late (she wasn't), that her appointment was that day (it wasn't), and that my mother was inconsiderate and would probably get fired soon (she wasn't/didn't).

I remember my mother warmly welcoming this woman, cooing over her outfit, asking how she had been since they last saw one another, thanking her for patiently waiting, making a pot of coffee, preparing her a cup, and acknowledging that she must have had to wake up incredibly early to get to the office on time and that she probably skipped breakfast, and could my mother get her something to eat because who wants to drink their morning coffee without a little something to eat?

My mother continued speaking kindly throughout their strange breakfast, impromptu appointment, and even while guiding her into the elevator.

I asked if everything was okay.

My mother smiled and said, "Oh, that? Her appointment is next week. I just know that she lives alone, far away, and takes 2 buses to get here. I wasn't going to turn her away. Maybe she just needed some company and to be taken care of a little bit. Life is hard. Why make it harder?"

What a lesson in not waiting for special moments or a particular audience to incorporate understanding, dignity, and patience into everyday interactions.

It was a good reminder that I also needed to treat myself and my healing with understanding, dignity, and patience.

I am reminded of this because I have had an incredibly hard year.

This morning, my mother sent me a photo of the cloud inversion below Teton Pass at sunrise. She wrote that she had pulled over to pause, breathe, take it all in, be where her feet were, get some perspective, and not forget how good things can get.

Wise words for 2024.