Desperate Prayers

I close my eyes, continue rocking, and do what I know how to do-- I pray

As any good therapist does, I try to leave my work at work. But often, the work is heavy. I usually try to shake it off on the car ride home. Sometimes, quite literally, to the tune of Taylor Swift’s “Shake it off.” But not tonight, though. Tonight I am quiet, lost in my thoughts.

It was a particularly rough session with a young teen who has lived through deep pain and has every right to be angry and hurt. After the light in my office has been turned off and the door locked, I find myself driving home in the dark. I sat witness to all the angry words, the hurt and the tears. There is nothing left, and I feel empty. I wonder if that’s how they feel at this moment, too.

I replay the session in my mind and wonder if I handled it the right way, if there is such a thing as a “right” way to handle someone's heart wounds. I wonder if there was something more I could have said or done. Or if I shouldn’t have said anything at all. But all I can do now is pray. I spend the rest of the car ride home praying for the right words to say next time, for the pain to heal, and for love to cover this sweet child.

When I arrive home, my 18 month old stretches out her arms and gleefully exclaims “mama!” before snuggling up to me as I rock her to sleep. Even as I am rocking her, I can’t shake the thoughts of work. Then the thoughts of my client somehow weave into thoughts of my daughter and before I know it my mind bounces to made-up futures and suddenly work and life are intertwined.

Will I one day be the bad guy in my own little one’s story? How will she handle the heartache and hurt of this world? How will I even handle her as a teenager? Will she hate me? Maybe all teenagers are just destined to hate their mothers, no matter how hard we try to shield them from pain.

I look down at my baby, who is now half asleep, close my eyes, and take a deep breath. I let her sleepy body cover me, the weight of it piecing my fragmented thoughts back into this moment, here, with her. I listen to the soft sounds as she sucks her thumb, the quiet rhythmic inhale and exhale of her breath. I know at this moment, she fully trusts me to be her safe place. I hope that never stops. I have to believe that no matter what may come, somewhere deep down in her bones, this love will stay with her. I close my eyes, continue rocking, and do what I know how to do-- I pray for this sweet little one as she falls asleep in my arms.

The thing about therapy is that we often see people who are in the middle of their journey. We don’t usually get to know the beginnings or endings of their story. We just get to walk with them, and cherish the small pieces we are allowed to witness. But here is where I’d like to think my daughter’s story begins, the firm foundation I am so desperately trying to lay for her - in a loving and warm embrace.