“Stories We Tell Ourselves, or Narratives We Take for Truths” by Steffi Gauguet
My eight-year-old daughter puts her pencil down, looks up at me with her sky-blue eyes full of sorrow, tears about to spill, and declares: “I am just not good at this.” She tried to draw a dolphin mommy and her calf and couldn’t get the proportions right. As far as I know, this is her first attempt at drawing a dolphin. Ever. And even if it had been the hundredth attempt, I would still encourage her to keep trying, to keep practicing, to reassure her that it does not have to be perfect. I want her to have fun, to enjoy creating something, to be proud of herself. Like last year, when she molded a lizard doggo out of clay for her brother’s birthday and was certain there had never been a better clay lizard doggo in the entire world, I agreed with her despite my lack of expertise in computer game pets. I want my little girl to be filled with self-confidence, to develop a strong personality, to be bully-proof. I know I won’t be able to always protect her but if I can help her build an armor of confidence in herself, her life will surely be happier.
That’s what I tell myself.
*
Did my parents want the same for me when I was eight? Probably. They might have even said something like that. All I remember though, is never quite measuring up. Endlessly searching for an aptitude of sorts, something that would make them proud of me, like tennis, dance, or acting. I loved to draw, too. But with several artists in my past and present family, everything I scribbled was scrutinized for a hint of that family talent that to my dismay I did not seem to possess.
“Maybe add a bit more darkness over here. It would give your painting more depth. You should never use the paint straight out of the tub, always mix it with another color, you know that, right? And that tree here, you should do this again – more realistically, your sketching is too…how should I say…amateur?” my Aunt suggested in an effort to turn my watercolor painting into something worth looking at. My great aunt came by our table and glanced at my smudges. She briefly nodded. “Hmmmm,” was all she said before moving on. I had hoped I would have a special present for my grandmother for her birthday. My grandmother, who painted beautiful watercolor scenes and even sold some of her art. I was nine. What was I thinking? Anything she ever would have wanted in a painting, she could do much better than I ever would. I did not understand at the time that painting is a skill you need to practice, not something you are born to do right from the beginning. Or that it was the process of creating something, whatever the outcome, that was meaningful. Especially for someone you love. Or that painting could be fun. I gave up before that misshapen tree had dried. I never tried to draw a dolphin mommy and her baby. I gave my grandmother a voucher for a back rub that year.
*
Lately, I have become more aware of the stories we tell ourselves about who we are and what we can do or even should do in our short little lives, plagued as we are by nihilistic melancholy and fear of anonymous mediocrity. Stories grown from ideas put into our young, inquisitive, spongy childhood brains by our parents, our teachers, friends, ourselves…all the messages we internalized, that grow into neuronal connections and pathways we keep carving deeper and deeper through repetition until they turn into trenches of thought patterns we can no longer escape. The narratives we take for truths, letting them grow and shape our decisions, our wants, our dreams, and our lives. We subconsciously authorize these stories to decide the course we steer, rarely questioning their veracity, validity, or even usefulness. And so I tell myself, If I don’t find a way to change my daughter’s dolphin doodle story now, she might never draw anything ever again in her life, thinking she’s terrible at art. Just like her Mom.
I also worried that her phase of destructive self-criticism had started. At eight. Already telling herself the story of not being good at drawing dolphins. I felt my proud, loving Mommy heart sink. What was I doing wrong? I must be doing something wrong. I am not a very good parent, I tell myself.
Here we go. I am appalled by the fact that her behavior reflects my thoughts. Self condemnation.
*
That story keeps showing up with urgency and redundancy in my life. The story of not being worthy of love unless I accomplish something great, important, of significance. It is ill defined in my mind what that means. It has to be a stretch beyond what people expect of me, of what I expect I could do, has to actually be important, and it has to serve someone. Be of benefit to someone.
What the outlet is, is up to me, whether it is painting a huge canvas worthy of a gallery exhibit (take that Aunt Marianne) and humbly stirring people to tears, leading to some sort of inspiration and change in their lives. Or founding a company that makes a product enhancing consumers’ lives, but in an important way, not a disposably superfluous kind of way. Or discover a pathophysiologic mechanism in the lab that explains an ailment we now can cure. Ideally cancer, of course, a distinctly common one, that affects many lives would be preferable. Or write a book that touches someone’s inner core and chord, leading to vibrations inspiring them to be better people, to somehow do something great in this world.
*
I don’t have any of these lofty expectations for my daughter. She does not have to become a famous artist, a prestigious animal protector, a tennis star, or sculptor inspired by computer games. The story I have for her is very different. I just want her to find her path, be true to herself in how she lives her life, and be happy. She is already worthy of so much more love than I can give her, love that awaits her future resilient self. Just as she is.
I take a pencil and give her dolphin mommy some scraggly hair, lashes, and a bra. The calf gets a diaper and a pacifier. My heart overflows with my daughter’s laughter. “You are silly, Mommy. I love you!”
She wraps her little arms around my neck, filling me with unconditional love. And I soak it up. Every drop. Worthy of it or not. Deeply wishing for her to always feel deserving of love and to ignore all the future stories that might hold her back.
Artist’s Statement
As is typical of going through life as a human being, I am going through some things. It amazes me how little our cages need to be rattled to throw us right back into our old patterns, our old beliefs about who we are and are not and what we can and cannot do. The stories we tell ourselves, grown from ideas put into our young and spongy childhood brains by our parents, our teachers, or mostly ourselves…all the messages we internalized and narratives we take for truths, letting them grow and shape our decisions, our wants, our dreams, and our lives, even if they long have stopped serving us, and maybe even, where we are now, harm us. Parenting is the most humbling of experiences and in “Stories We Tell Ourselves, or Narratives We Take for Truths” I am describing a moment with my daughter realizing how I want her stories to not hold her back, to not limit her, or make her feel any less amazing than who she truly is.
Steffi Gauguet is a Harvard-trained pediatric critical care physician taking care of the sickest of kids at their most vulnerable times during her regular job, a Mom of 3, surprisingly healthy kids (one with high-functioning autism who has taught her much more about being neurodiverse and seeing the world through a different lens than she ever imagined), a triathlete, an ambidextrous supertaster with synesthesia, and a writer. Having grown up in Germany, she now lives in central Massachusetts, where she enjoys the fall foliage, apple pies, skiing the East with her husband and their (now) much faster and courageous kids in the winter and frolicking with them in the waves of the Atlantic in the summer.