Untamed - Glennon Doyle Page 0,85
humility. Humility comes from inside out.’ ”
I think of what she said to me every day. She was saying: Playing dumb, weak, and silly is a disservice to yourself and to me and to the world. Every time you pretend to be less than you are, you steal permission from other women to exist fully. Don’t mistake modesty for humility. Modesty is a giggly lie. An act. A mask. A fake game. We have no time for it.
The word humility derives from the Latin word humilitas, which means “of the earth.” To be humble is to be grounded in knowing who you are. It implies the responsibility to become what you were meant to become—to grow, to reach, to fully bloom as high and strong and grand as you were created to. It is not honorable for a tree to wilt and shrink and disappear. It’s not honorable for a woman to, either.
I’ve never pretended to be stronger than I am, so I’m sure as hell not going to pretend I’m weaker than I am. I’m also going to quit requiring modesty from other women. I don’t want to find comfort in the weakness and pain of other women. I want to find inspiration in the joy and success of other women. Because that makes me happier, and because if we keep disliking and tearing down strong women instead of loving them, supporting them, and voting for them, we won’t have any strong women left.
When I see a joyful, confident woman moving through the world with swagger, I’m going to forgive myself for my first reaction because it’s not my fault, it’s just my conditioning.
First reaction: Who the hell does she think she is?
Second reaction: She knows she’s a goddamn cheetah. Halle-fucking-lujah.
I’ve always judged harshly my parenting generation’s obsession with their kids’ sports. I’ve pitied the parents who spend their weekends and paychecks carting their kids all over the country to watch them kick balls or do handsprings. Each time a friend tells me about the scholarship her kid got to college, I say, “That’s wonderful!” and I think: But didn’t you spend at least that much on leotards and shin guards and hotels? For a very long while, my athletic goal for my children was mediocrity. I wanted them to learn enough about sports to avoid embarrassing themselves in gym class but not enough to become talented and ruin my weekends.
When the girls were young, they wanted to try gymnastics, so we drove to the local gym once a week and they rolled around and pointed their toes while I read and periodically looked up to yell, “Nice, honey!” This was a perfect scenario until the coach approached me after practice and said, “Your girls show real promise. It’s time for them to start coming three times a week.” I looked at her, smiled, thanked her, and thought: Time for a new sport! The following week, we joined the soccer house league. The girls had fun, and since there was zero pressure or real learning, I felt confident that we could continue to meet our mediocrity goal.
After the divorce, Tish began to fade. I watched her slowly retreat into food for comfort and spend more and more time alone in her room. I knew she needed to move her body more, but I also know, from personal experience, that suggesting this to a child will backfire. Tish was ten. I was ten when I fell into bulimia. My baby looked like she was teetering—right on the edge of falling. I was afraid.
I sat on the couch with Abby one night and said, “I think we need to get her back into therapy.”
Abby said, “I disagree. I think she needs to get out of her head, not deeper into it. I’ve been thinking about this a lot. I want Tish to try out for an elite travel soccer team.”
ME: I’m sorry. What did you just say? Have you met Tish? That child would not run if the house were on fire. And those travel girls have been playing since birth. No, thank you. We are trying to help her, not humiliate her.
ABBY: I’ve got a hunch here. She’s a natural leader. She gets this spark in her eye when we talk about soccer. I think she might love it.
ME: No chance. She’s way too fragile right now. What if she doesn’t make it and it breaks her?
ABBY: What if she makes it and it makes her?
Behind my back, Abby