Since Lent began more than two weeks ago, I’ve been sitting at this computer fine-tuning a blog post about positivity and silver linings. You know, as part of my Lenten sacrifice. But who the hell am I kidding? It felt hollow even to me, and not because I don’t believe what I wrote but because—ashamedly—I’m not an overly optimistic, positive person. And writing otherwise sometimes makes me feel dishonest. How’s that for a ringing endorsement?! Life just feels so hard and scary right now (as I’m sure it does for many people given what’s happening in our world today). Everything is a struggle, a war raging between my body and my mind. It’s truly amazing what fear, anxiety, and chronic stress can do to one’s psyche.
Yet underneath this debilitating murk is one—albeit barely discernible—thought, one slim thread of hope that grounds me: “This paranoid, germophobic, anxious, frightened version of myself isn’t who I want to be.” That sentiment flashes through my mind multiple times a day. It’s what keeps me going and is the motivation behind my recent unsatiated desire to stay positive and find that silver lining, no matter the cost. After all, there’s gotta be some semblance of optimism deep within my soul if every time I sit down to write these days, I find happiness and joy and hope oozing onto the page. Right?! That must mean something. I can feel my soul’s quiet desperation for faith trying to overpower my mind’s burning desire to unravel. And for the first time in months, I want my soul to win.
Which is why during Lent (and particularly during this unprecedented somber time in our lives) I’m determined to put all my energies into wading through the darkness in search of the light—as out of character as that may be. So, as much as I can, I’m going to write from a happy place. And what better place to start than with the Care Bears (bet you weren’t expecting that, huh?!). For some reason, I’ve been thinking about this year-old memory a lot lately. A lot. And it’s kinda weird because nothing “happened” in this memory—well, nothing other than my daughter. But I suppose it’s indicative of what I crave most when I’m feeling alone, scared, and helpless. I’ll let you be the judge.
As some of you know, I struggle with parenting my daughter and if I’m being honest, this is what’s been causing much of my strife and negativity of late. At least it was before coronavirus fears took center stage—as if my anxieties over sickness aren’t already irrational and debilitating. Anyways, my daughter’s very … challenging. She requires a lot of attention, patience, and mental capacity, all of which I am in desperately short supply. Without delving too deep (that’s not the point of this post), she’s a perfectionist, she’s uber sensitive and emotionally mature (for a 6-year-old), and she’s a very, very, VERY finicky eater, which presents its own set of challenges.
In a nutshell, most days I have no idea how to be the momma she so obviously needs. But I do believe God brought us together for a reason—for some life lesson I need to learn. Because this child never fails to subtly and innocently remind me about what’s important. And any lesson from her always—always—stems from love and joy and hope, which is why I can’t stop thinking about the Care Bears.
Around this time last year, my daughter discovered “The Care Bears Movie” (yes, the one from 1985) and had been watching it on repeat. (I secretly loved that because it’s one of my most favorite and cherished movies from when I was a young girl.) One morning on the way to preschool—when I was already a bit of an emotional wreck for reasons I can’t remember today—out of the blue she said to me, “You know what, mom, I love Love-A-Lot Bear. She’s my favorite Care Bear, and Tenderheart, too.” Now, given her emotional maturity, I wouldn’t be surprised if her comment stemmed from her accurate read of my fragile mental state at the time. It was the simplest statement, but holy cow did it leave an impression on me. And clearly it stayed with me because here I am writing about it more than a year later.
It was one of those surreal moments as a parent where you’re so amped up with emotion, and consumed by the stresses of everyday life, that even the smallest, most trivial comment from your child will reduce you to tears, which it did of course because I cry over everything. (That’s normal, right? I can’t be the only parent who does this, can I?) As I gazed at my daughter’s smiling face in the rear-view mirror, I remember feeling such overwhelming adoration for her, and all I could think was, of course Love-A-Lot and Tenderheart bears are her favorites. Because she is the kindest, most loving, empathetic, and tender-hearted person I know. She loves so purely, so unconditionally, and so profoundly with all her heart and soul. And it dawned on me then—and even now—that most days I’m nowhere near worthy of being her momma. I try so hard but, somehow, I always end up falling short.
Sometimes my daughter really puts me to shame. She is so much smarter, so much kinder, so much better than me. She doesn’t bury herself under a blanket of self-loathing. She doesn’t wallow in self-pity. She doesn’t act the victim or complain, whine, and moan about her lot in life. She simply brushes herself off and moves along on her merry way to the next thing that makes her happy. She chooses love, friendship, rainbows (always the rainbows!), and sunshiny days—just like her Care Bears. She has no room in her heart for anger, bitterness, or despair. And all it takes is a memory like this to remind me that I don’t either.
I’m always going to be a work in progress, especially when it comes to parenting through my fears and anxieties. Most of the time I get so caught up in the battles of control my daughter and I constantly wage against one another. But it’s in these quieter reflective moments that I realize how much of a positive impact her beautiful soul has had on my life over the past six years. To the point where even an innocent comment about her favorite Care Bears can still turn me into a pathetic, blubbering mess some 15-odd months later. I think that’s why I keep resurrecting this memory. Because when I take the time to look and truly see who my daughter is—past all the inconsequential shenanigans that come with a child struggling to find her independence (and to cope with her own youthful insecurities and anxieties)—that’s when her true magic shines through. That’s when I see the beautiful soul whom I aspire to emulate. For she is my sweet, sweet Care-A-Lot.
But it’s more than that. It’s about the beauty and the power of reflection, too. Holding onto and revisiting something special that for one reason or another sticks with us and forces us to reexamine who we are and our place in this world, so we can make the changes necessary to ensure we are living our best lives with the people we cherish the most. And to remind us that, in the end, life is about choices and perspective. For we are the storytellers of our own lives and we all deserve our own personal version of Care-A-Lot. A world filled with beauty, tenderness, understanding, friendship, and faith. And it starts from within. So, if we’re struggling to find the happiness in our own story, then we owe it to ourselves to rewrite it. To change our perspective and choose the good.
I know what you’re thinking, dear readers (all two of you!). “What a crock of shit! This isn’t the cynical, jaded Brie we all know and love.” But I assure you, it’s me. My mind and sanity have not left the building (not yet anyways), I’m not going senile in my old age, and I’m not on drugs. I’m just so incredibly desperate for positivity. And I will take it in any way, shape, or form. The world is sad enough; I don’t need to add my own heart and soul to the mix.
Certainly, I’m not saying I won’t stumble and fall back into my negative-thinking (and, yes, self-deprecating) ways at some point. I am human after all and life is full of ups and downs. But armed with memories like this, and the inspiration I find within my children and myself (it’s buried deep but it’s there), it’s a hell of a lot easier to envision a happy ending. So, whenever I find myself spiraling back down the rabbit hole—especially in these bleak, fearful, debilitating times—I’m going to pull this Care Bears memory back out and hold on for dear life. And I’m going to remind myself to choose the good. To choose hope, love, happiness, and friendship. Because that’s the world I want to live in—one full of my daughter’s rainbows. And that’s the story I want to write.
Stay safe and healthy out there, dear friends.