The College Essay That Exposed Me

I remember reading my oldest daughter's college essay and sitting for long moments afterward, gutted, and staring into space in disbelief. It wasn't the topic: her father had not believed in her dream of becoming a journalist, so she set out to prove him and his judgments wrong. It wasn't about pride, though I was proud of the strong voice she exhibited through her writing. Instead, it was the precision with which she used her pen as a scalpel, laying bare years of hurt and frustration.

Who was this child? How had I raised her?

I was jealous. She had unabashedly expressed her vulnerability with abandon, something her own mother, at that time, seemed unable to do. In that ten-minute read, I saw in her what I could not see in myself. It stopped me in my proverbial tracks, forcing me to come face-to-face with a truth I had been avoiding for years.

I recognized the description of her father immediately, and remarkably, I recognized our marriage. She had handed her father a dream close to her heart, and he waved it away; I had handed my husband my innermost thoughts about the state of our marriage, and he bent them into something to use against me, in the very moments I needed his support most. The offerings were different, but the response was the same. What differed was what we did next. She took the dismissal and used it as fuel to light a page for anyone to read. I closed my hands and retreated.

During the years immediately after my divorce, I had come to see vulnerability as weakness, even though I hadn't started out that way. I once believed that sharing my most intimate thoughts with the person I loved would bring acceptance, that being known meant being understood. But after the person who was supposed to be my life partner used them against me, openness no longer seemed like something I could safely offer anyone.

Conversely, what's weird is that in others, I sought it out.

It was a door into who they were, and being trusted with it made me feel safe. I took what people offered and kept my hands closed. Exposure, I told myself, never ended well, and I was convinced the flaw was mine. So the more people urged me to let go, the tighter I held on, certain that the grip was what kept me safe.

My daughter and her essay had sparked something in me, and she didn't even know it. Don't get me wrong, guarding your heart matters, and I still believe that. But what if I allowed myself the grace of openness? What if the emptiness I felt at that time was partly my own doing, because I never opened my hands to the people who wanted in?

That day, when she came home, I told her how proud I was of her writing. My intuitive girl accepted the compliments, but she sensed there was more. Later she said she didn't think I was telling her everything, and hinted that I had feedback I hadn't shared.

She was right, though not in the way she imagined.

Voice shaking, I told her that her essay unearthed and mirrored marital hurt that I had never fully processed, which had kept me closed off. That one open conversation led to others. They weren't about making her father a villain or rewriting our history. They were, instead, about opening our hands, palms up, taking risks, and letting go.

That was years ago. My daughter is currently a successful journalist in Philadelphia, still making her list of dreams come true. Through her fearlessness, I have learned that relationships take work. Some days I still want to close my fists and wall myself off. But I have learned that living openly has given me a richer life than I ever imagined.