Sometimes, we live through months and years that are impossibly heavy and hard to describe. Hard to fathom. For my family, this year has often seemed so heavy, like the parade of hits that keeps on coming. And that’s only when we look inside our home, without daring to peek at the challenges and horrors of the outside world.
Sometimes, I look back over 2024 – though it still has a few more months left on its seemingly never-ending clock – and find myself laughing at the number of insanely hard and dark and heavy things we’ve experienced. Because if I don’t laugh, the alternative is to cry. Which I do, sometimes. Or I sit in shock, befuddled by the how and why of this strange struggle.
A number of weeks ago, I discovered myself disproportionately reassured by a certain metaphor I thought of while perplexed by this year’s chaos. So I thought I’d share it with you today, in the event it helps you when your life and the world seem too heavy. This metaphor involves a piece of playground equipment my kids used to love: the seesaw.
Imagine yourself sitting on one side of a seesaw, with your feet firmly planted on the ground. On the other side are some rocks and pebbles – the daily challenges of life as a working parent – that weigh approximately what you do. As more pebbles arrive opposite you, you straighten your knees a bit, maybe being forced to stand up. But generally, you’re able to bob up and down gently, soles of your shoes still touching that funny rubbery playground substance that prevents the number of bone breaks we used to have as kids on the blacktop.
Then one day, with a jolt, you hear a thud and fly skyward. Your butt literally leaves the seesaw for a moment. And when you are reacquainted with the board, you find your feet dangling. Across from you, there’s a giant boulder where those pebbles used to sit. “Where did that even come from?” you wonder. “And how do I get down?” As you bounce around a bit, trying to determine if wild movement might shift the weight in your favor, another heavy rock crashes through the air. You see it coming this time, but it still lands on the other side of the seesaw. And this time your feet and arms flail. Your memory of the ground’s safety starts feeling foggy. As though you might live unmoored forever.
More boulders fall, and, resigned to your fate, you realize you can’t block them or move them. (This is life, dear one. Sometimes, it simply crashes. And OH, how we are not in control.) With that awareness, though, comes the spark of an idea. A reminder of how seesaws work. Even if you can’t move the big kid off the other side, you can at least, just maybe, add weight to your own.
You summon the forces of joy and groundedness. You conjure a delight. A special event, or a hug, or a flower that brings you a smile, if even for a moment. And a small stone lands in your lap. The seesaw moves, if only a hair. But the ground suddenly seems a tiny bit less far away. You plan a thing to look forward to. Though you’re scared you might still be stuck in the seesaw and not even able to do that happy thing, you plan away anyway. And the planning brings you joy. Brings you another rock on your lap, that moves your side down another inch.
You keep going, with tears, sometimes, when more rocks pile up on the opposing side. But with more joy, too, as you find more ways to create your own, powerful carin. And when your side is finally low enough for others to reach, you invite them to climb on with you. To hold you tight, as your breath floods out and your toes finally, once again, find the ground.
Dear working parents, what are your counterweights? What are the forces of joy and grounding that bring you a little closer to steady when you flail? My own counterweights this year have been things like long walks with my friends. Binge watching Bridgerton by myself, and The Good Place with my family. Writing. Going on a date to the Bruce Springsteen concert at Nats Park with my husband, to celebrate his birthday. And the one I was sure wasn’t actually going to happen but somehow magically did, going to the Olympics.
Today, as I type this, our family is in crisis again, and my feet flail with the distress of being able to do nothing to remove this next boulder from the seesaw. In the past, I would have canceled my own delights. But in 2024, I’ve learned to invite in the counterweights. So I kept the joyful plan we had for the weekend. I hopped in our minivan with one of my sons and drove to Pennsylvania anyway. And this weekend, we celebrated my great aunt’s 80th birthday with food, and cake, and family…
I used to think of joy as a traitor to my sorrow. But I’m coming to see her as a necessary – and worthy – playground companion.
Want more practical tips on working parenthood? Check out my book, Back to Work After Baby: How to Plan and Navigate a Mindful Return from Maternity Leave
