The thing about fear...

And about being a mother.

A part of my heart turns 12 today! (Naturally, I’ll be spending some time with Enya. Again.)

He’s the part of my heart that first called me Mama.

Eventually Mommy.

Then Bucky for a couple of weeks. (Blame the cartoon pirate he was obsessed with at the same time).

For a few years now, I’ve just been Mom.

Lately, he’s been trying out Ma.

Once, when he was four or five, he surprised me and my husband by yelling out “Olwen” in a busy store to get my attention.

This is how he backed up his claim that “[he] could get mommy’s attention” after my husband’s low register failed to make me take notice.

It totally worked because, 1) I didn’t know my kid even knew my name. Strangers called me “mommy”, “mother” or “mom” way too often whenever my kid was around, and, 2) he pronounced it perfectly! Some grown ass adults can’t be bothered to say my name correctly (which is why they just called me “mommy”), but here was this perfect little angel baby saying it properly. (Olwen is said like All-wen in case you’re wondering).

No matter what he calls me, watching a part of my heart wandering around outside of my body is a majestic wonder that leaves me in constant awe.

It’s also an absolutely terrifying nightmare that can be exhausting to endure.

It’s glorious and absolutely terrifying. All at the same time.

My kid and I have a special bond. My husband named one of my smiles after our son since it only showed up on my face after our midwives put our newborn on my chest. All these years later, and that same smile spreads across my face only when I look at, or think, of my kid.

While my kid and I are tightly connected, I know that he is his own person. And I am mine.

And these facts don’t take away any of the fear I have around guiding him to be the person he is while also ensuring he survives to see another birthday.

While I was making plans for my kid’s 12^th birthday, someone who wishes to remain anonymous, even to me, gifted me with jewelry. (Thank you to whoever did this! I appreciate you working with a jewelry maker whose work I admire, to surprise me.)

The time and effort that went into making this happen for me will not be forgotten. The jewelry maker, Robin, beautifully wrapped and delivered it to my door herself. It also came with this note:

Image description: A white square of paper that reads “Olwen, Love from the Universe because you are fearlessly you. ~ a friend (with a heart inked beside)

Did it make you say, “aaaawwww!” like I did when you read it for the first time?

I got a little misty eyed while I was gyrating (happy dancing!) around my kitchen and trying on my present!

Then my mind got stuck on a word in that note, and I stopped dancing.

The word was “fearlessly”.

It’s a lovely sounding word. Carries a lovely sentiment, too.

And it’s a word that, to me, feels like it comes with an impossible standard to live up to.

Being without fear seems impossible. (Especially when a part of my hearts insists on growing up outside of my body!)

I couldn’t help but wonder who in the Universe actually believes I’m out here living my life, being me, without fear.

And why would they think that?

Then, because I’m me, I mentally scanned through everything I had ever said and done in my entire life to find evidence of where, and how, I had led people to believe this fallacy!

And, because I’m me, I eventually realized that what I was really doing, by taking issue with someone’s generous gift, was trying to assuage the guilt I felt for thinking I was worthy of accepting it. (For the record, this was the second time I had taken issue with this gift. My fear made me worry that someone who I don’t want in my life was trying to buy their way back in through this anonymous gift. While Robin has kept the buyer’s name a secret from me, she could confirm that it didn’t come from the person who I do not want any contact with.)

Plus, this worry I had about someone thinking/saying/believing that I’m fearless is just plain boring. It doesn’t really matter.

I’m not responsible for what another person thinks or believes. Even if it’s about me. Even if it’s complimentary and kind. Which this is.

(And yet, I’m also very aware of how dangerous a person’s beliefs can be, whether or not they are conscious of them, and how they can lead to the harm and destruction of other people. And no, I don’t consider being called “fearlessly you” as harmful.)

But, because I’m me, I’d hate to let this moment pass without offering a little reminder.

I am not fearless.  (You too?)

Me and fear are very much in a committed relationship.

It began long before I even got pregnant, but that is when it became more serious between us. You could say that the baby brought us closer together.

And yet, we (me and fear) don’t always agree. We don’t even like each other half the time. But we’re both stubborn and we don’t give up, or in, easily. Neither of us will leave the other one alone. (I never said we had a healthy relationship.)

Fear asks me to consider things. It’s a teacher. It tries to keep me safe. And it has no problem fueling my nightmares with scenarios only fear could provide. Fear can be rather annoying, and it rarely leaves me alone.

Sometimes fear convinces me I shouldn’t even try, so I don’t. Other times, I race ahead, while fear breathlessly chases behind, begging me to slow down. Sometimes my fear can be so quiet that I barely notice it sitting on my shoulders. Other times my fear is so loud that I can’t think beyond what it’s screaming into my ears and flinging in my face.

No matter the circumstances, I know that we (me and fear) are stuck with each other. We’re trying to make it work. Some days are easier than others.

So, whenever you see me out here being… me, sharing my words, wandering towards my next creative obsession, or watching a part of my heart grow up outside of my body, know that while I’m out here doing my thing, I’ve decided to do it alongside my fear.

To my anonymous gift giver, thank you for appreciating me being my fearlessly-but-really-full-of-fear self.  

Enjoy the rest of your day. Treat yourself to some cheesecake in honour of my kid’s birthday!

Olwen

PS. The poem Good Bones by Maggie Smith helps me fortify myself while I deal with some of my fears in this world of ours.

PPS. Stop what you’re doing and watch How to Lose Everything (CBC Gem) now. It’s a series of five beautifully animated Indigenous short films (each under 10 minutes) about loss and grief. They are gorgeous.

A different writer, animator, and medium created each film. (Click here to read more about the series, watch the films and see a list of credits.) It’s streaming in English, Cree, Anishinaabemowin, Ktunaxa, and Inuktitut.

My personal favourites are:

• How to Lose Everything: A Field Guide. It is a beautiful entry, not only into the series, but also into how you can live with your own grief.

• A Bear Named Jesus has stuck with me the longest. There’s a weight to this story and the animation carries it easily.

• There Are Hierarchies of Grief made me cry. Good tears. The kind that fall while remembering the sweet part of a bittersweet memory.