To Love What Changes

A few months ago, my son and I had a big fight. It was the same day we had to say goodbye to Ziggy, our dog. We were holding multiple hard things, and he was struggling. I could not imagine a way of supporting him that didn’t include being in the same physical space. But that was not what he was asking for. He was really struggling, and he wanted to be left alone with it.

This went against all the paths I had carved as a mother. The way we show care is by being physically there, making sure he has a warm meal, a comforting hug. That’s what my brain said. But my son was saying, That’s not the definition of care I need today. Today, care means trusting me to take care of myself.

I had a near meltdown. I didn't get it. Not only did I not get it, I didn't feel I could get to it. Not in peace. So we fought.

Angrily, I got in my car and drove over to retrieve him. On the phone, he kept saying, "Mama, you're not listening to me. Please let me do this." Midway, I stopped the car. Tears came. He was asking me to listen to his new request.

I needed to listen.

I could no longer make him do what I thought was best. I couldn't make him receive my care the way I thought it was needed. So I made him promise to answer my calls, and I drove myself home.

My heart ached with the confusion of love held back, because the old way of expressing it wouldn't land today. I could feel my mind dizzy with the changing landscape of what motherhood was asking from me. The old way doesn't work anymore, yet I love him. So how can I love him now? This love was asking for trust, and I needed to risk something to let trust grow.

My heart ached all night, but by morning I knew the fight was not only for his opportunity to hold himself through something hard, but for me to have access to a new way to love him. For me to realize what motherhood had been asking from me for 17 years: to commit to a love that keeps changing. A love that doesn't hold someone to one way of being, but makes room, expands, shapeshifts with each passing day.

He came home in the morning. We looked at each other, and before words, we knew we had called each other into a new way of being, not just between us, but between each of us and the world.

As my twins reach for their young adult selves, I find myself sifting through: What matters now? What do they need? How can my love be felt now? What they need from me cannot resemble what they needed 17 years ago. They don't need me to prepare a healthy snack tray, take them to playdates, remind them to brush their teeth, or drive them to school. In no other relationship of mine is it so explicit: this human being is supposed to change. Their healthy growth implies change. It implies reattuning, moment by moment, season by season.

I think of my other relationships. What could come from asking my heart to love what is eternally changing? How have these initiations in motherhood prepared me to meet life with love? To meet a changing world with love?

I feel satisfied, sad, and excited at the same time. Satisfied that I finally understand it has always been about loving what changes, and that, one way or another, I have been doing it. Sad that I didn’t get to rest more deeply in the simplicity of the task while they were little. And excited that motherhood has shown me a deepened way to love life.

I’m grateful for that day. It showed me what a mess I can make when my love can’t find the right expression. It also showed me I can turn the car around, sit in the discomfort of risking trust, and listen to what’s changing. It showed me the deepest love is a love that attunes to what's changing form and responds.

To love what changes. Maybe that's the whole of it.