Lessons on Loneliness Learned from My Family

Lessons My Family Taught me About Loneliness Growing up, I never dreamed of becoming a mother or wife. Not the same way that I dreamed about playing tennis or designing shoes as a career. One vision of my future family flashed in my head like a live photograph:

Five kids are behind me as my husband drives a Suburban west, and we all sing along to Kirk Franklin, Janet Jackson, Kirk Franklin, or En Vogue. It doesn’t really matter what order the artists are in; everyone gets to sing. The sky will change from plum to rose and back to black before we are done.

I realized 30 years later that the image of an idyllic future family that was created by subconsciously combining random items, was not a fantasy. My parents drove me and my sisters from Ohio to California the summer after I turned 10 to visit relatives who we had only seen in photos.

The fantasy left out the unpleasant facts of our trip, such as five days in flip-flops at truck stops and four nights in bucket seats in rest areas to save money. It captured my experience of those who were closest to me. The family is the foundation of belonging. Protect yourself from loneliness.

Family meant that I never spent a Friday alone, even if I didn’t have any friends. When the world caused you to feel more anxiety than calm, or when your nervous system was in need of bubble wrap, family dropped all plans. You were picked up by family members who walked across the factory in work boots with earplugs, or took your calls on the payphone at school, and talked you down to the point where everything, except the fact that you are wired differently, felt light and airy. I was the youngest and most nervous of three girls. I had been raised by a family that poured their love and nerves over me, covering me in a world I felt constantly overwhelmed.

My family looks like my vision. Three kids, a Honda Minivan littered by leftovers from kids’ meals and a preacher/educator spouse. We can’t even make it to Target in California without yelling and “accidental kicking” or fighting over the song.

I am loved deeply in this family where we listen “Jar of Hearts”, “Hypnotize”, and a mashup of gospel songs, and where we discuss feelings and go to therapist. I am needed and recognized. In the past year, I have felt a new reality that cannot be explained by my turning 40, or being finally diagnosed with ADHD after years of believing it was only anxiety disorder. Sometimes I feel lonely. It’s not the weekend plans kind of loneliness, but the feeling that you aren’t built to do this job and all it demands. I thought that family could keep you away from loneliness. But now that I have been back, I realize that loneliness can creep in when you are unable to meet the needs of your family, even if some of these needs match your own.

It makes sense genetically that some of my kids would have sensitive nervous system. Why shouldn’t Loop earplugs or Tangle fidgets become part of our shared experience? Knowing that is one thing, but responding appropriately is another. My spouse is a multi-tasker and executive who enjoys doing many things at once. But even with him, I feel stretched to the limit.

I don’t stop box breathing and saving the day when one child needs an airtight routine while another requires a spontaneous boost of dopamine, or one works better while humming while another cannot find their headphones quickly enough. My brain does not say: “Hang in there. You can do it.” Give yourself some time. My own brand of black-and white thinking and years spent masking shame and hiding behind my own thoughts declares instead: You cannot do this. You don’t fit in this family, which you helped to create.

I know it’s not true. Even when it is hard, I fit in here. We are all parts of, and I can’t measure or describe how.

It’s important to remember that ADHD and anxiety disorders don’t make me a super-parent. I will continue to learn the best ways to advocate for them, and I will love them (and me) well. But I am not the best mother for them just because I am neurodivergent. I am the best mom because I am their mother. It’s okay that I’m still figuring out what that looks.

A school administrator refused to meet my child’s special needs last year. The image she gave me, though hurtful at the time, is now a comfort. She told us that we were hanging on by a thread of gossamer. We pulled our child out of the school. We were only holding on to our registration.

I’ve always imagined myself as a protective film that is strong, expansive and almost impermeable. We stretched our love, our nerves and our prayers to the limit for our family. This year we have spent many days on gossamer strings.

I’ve started to feel for those delicate and silky threads in darkness. Even my catastrophizing mind can’t ignore the beauty of old photos and videos, or handwritten notes.

You can see me teaching you how to read on these foam squares. You liked Daniel Tiger, so I made you a strawberry cake from scratch. You are rapping Hamilton like a boss. Your dad will throw you in the air and you’ll have a few seconds of freedom until you safely land in his arms.

Night after night, I remember. I am more interested in witnessing than protecting. We are here, weary and thinned, with no answers. We wish the world was less of a affront to who we are. We are much more than just a collection needs. When we feel like an assortment of needs, remember to be a family. The gossamer threads were not what I was picturing, but they are strong.