Between the Fire
Photo, Cemetery Fence, Achill Island, Ireland, By Vicki Donaldson Einsel
“The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown.”
Recently, standing amidst gravestones in the beautiful Irish cemetery (above), our tour guide told stories about Irish superstitions and fears. He confessed he would rather "run through fire than walk under a ladder."
Fascinating.
In other words, he would choose the known path of burning himself instead of the unknown risk of possible bad luck. I realized he would feel a sense of control by choosing to run through burning embers. There is certainty, I guess, as opposed to the unpredictable, unknowable evil consequences lurking in the shadow of ladders. For him, a potential dance with the devil is worse than getting burned by fire.
It fascinates me.
How often does fear lead us to scorch ourselves?
How often do we make life more difficult by choosing a known but damaging path all for the illusion of control?
How do superstitions and ingrained beliefs limit our choices?
I wonder where the superstition about ladders and bad luck even began.
The roots of this superstition trace back to the builders of the pyramids, the ancient Egyptians. Triangles were sacred to them, embodying the trinity of gods. To pass under a ladder violated this sacred geometry, and so the fear endured through the ages, etching itself into our collective psyche. Five thousand years later, scores of people still won’t walk beneath ladders, even if they never met anyone hurt for doing so.
Do I do this? Choose the known path (fire), even if it harms me, over the unknown path (ladder) out of fear? Do I even know where my fear originates? Was it passed through generations, over decades? From over 5,000 years ago? Like in the lingering superstition of not walking under a ladder.
(Hmm. Deep).
YES, yes, I do choose the safer, more familiar option, ALL THE TIME.
YES, yes, I do hold beliefs that have passed down through generations of my family. Certain beliefs are subtle and easy to spot, while others are sneakier and buried so deep they are running on autopilot in the background. Many of us never question our beliefs, where they came from, and if they are serving us.
Earlier this year, I ungracefully broke my ankle wearing high heeled boots at my son's school. This happened the day before a NYC day trip and three days before a trip to Disney World with my family. I went to urgent care; they said, “NOT broken!” (Turns, out they were wrong, it was in fact broken, but that’s another story) So, off I went to NYC and hobbled around. My foot got worse. Three days later, we flew to Orlando and hit the parks. Stubbornly, I dragged myself around in extreme pain, slowing my family down. I kept saying, “I’m fine.” “Don’t worry about me.”
The big thing I said -
“I DO NOT NEED A WHEELCHAIR.” (I would rather run through fire than get into a wheelchair)
For two full days, I limped through the “Magic” of Disney. The second night, I was a mess. So, instead of seeing the fireworks and spending time with our boys, my husband and I went to our hotel. Sternly, he said, “You ARE getting a wheelchair tomorrow, you have NO choice. Do you want to miss spending any more time with the boys?”
UGGGGGG! I was NOT happy.
The demons in my head were yelling - A wheelchair, for me? No way! I am the leader. One of my Superpowers is navigating Disney. I won’t get my 25 million steps in like I always do in the parks. I don’t want to be a burden on anyone. Are you kidding me? OMG, I have to sit ALL day? Who will push me? OMG! I HAVE TO SIT ALL DAY! I can take care of myself! What kind of horrible mom am I? This is sooooooo not a good idea.
The next morning, I reluctantly agree to get a wheelchair.
We head directly to the rental kiosk. The same kiosk where, not long ago, we rented strollers. Feels eerie. My family is teasing me about needing a wheelchair. They write “Wheeling Miss Thing” on the name tag hanging off the back. They sing the “Miss Thing” song to the tune of the Adams Family. They threaten to push me erratically and joke about letting go of the handles, making me zoom down the paths all by myself. It makes me worry, what if they actually leave me alone somewhere?
Pouting, I sit down.
Ok, this is not too bad.
My ankle is thanking me.
I didn’t die. I am ok.
My oldest son takes the handles, and off we go. I feel shame that my son is pushing me. I want to hide my face.. This is so embarrassing!
Silently, I wonder. Aren’t I supposed to be taking care of him? This sucks. Everyone will look at me. My “boys” can’t hear me when I talk. How do they know where to go? I can’t control where they are going. They are taking the long way and too slowly. At this snail's pace, there's no way we'll get everything done!
The first few hours were hell. The story I was telling myself was not pretty. Giving up control was uncomfortable. I felt vulnerable. Asking for help? Not easy. Trusting my family would handle everything, including the itinerary, me, and maneuvering the wheelchair was hard. I am the caregiver, not the other way around. I fought letting them take care of me. At least until I didn’t...
I began to lean into my situation. I quieted the noisy voices in my head.
I notice my son seems to enjoy pushing me around. He has occupied wheelchairs multiple times in his life for significantly more serious reasons than a bum ankle. He instinctively understands how to easily and stresslessly move through the crowds. He is REALLY good at this. I can totally do this! Julian did it for long periods of time, including at Disney. He allowed me to push him and take care of him. Now, it’s his turn to care for me. It is like a special gift from him.
I notice we are moving quicker without me hobbling, and the boys know Disney way better than I do.
I notice not a single person cares or even glances at me or the wheelchair. No one is sending me judging vibes.
I notice my family enjoying each other. Even if they can’t hear me, I can hear them laughing.
I spot a little girl playing with a stuffed fox on the monorail. Sitting down, I get a whole different perspective.
I am experiencing Disney in a COMPLETELY new and beautiful way.
.
The wheelchair protects me and is keeping me safe
.
My family loves me, and I am not a burden.
.
The little fox makes me smile.
I am so lucky.
In the end, the wheelchair was my teacher. Many life lessons were gifted to me. I learned firsthand how difficult it was for my son, with his illness, to depend on wheelchairs, me, and others to attend to his basic needs. He missed countless family vacations because he was too ill. I am awed by the fact that he is on this vacation and is strong and healthy enough to push me. I allowed myself to be vulnerable, to let go of control, and to trust someone to take care of me, and I didn’t die.
But, I also didn’t ASK for help. It was forced onto me. (Thankfully)
My husband and I come from matriarchal family structures, where women prefer tackling everything on their own. Women who adamantly resist asking for help. Generations of strong women who go it alone and get things done. These women fear being a burden or labeled as difficult, and they sometimes doubt if they deserve care or love unless they're the ones taking care of everyone and everything. It's a bit ironic, because trying to control everything by taking care of it all often backfires. We end up frustrated when we don't get the support and love we secretly crave. It's like we've made it our job to handle everything.
It was my job.
My husband and I consciously decided to manage on just one income after our first child. There were pieces of me that carried extreme guilt for being “lucky” enough to stay home and raise the kids. I took on the role of CEO of everything. I perfected overdoing, overcommitting, and saying YES to everyone. It became my 24/7 identity. I craved feeling valued in a world that doesn’t give much credit to woman’s role, especially, to the stay-at-home mom.
A world that looks down on the outdated, yet still believed, 1950s paradigm of women staying home, just sitting around smoking cigarettes, sipping dry martinis while watching soap operas all day long.
A world where women’s voices seemed to vanish.
A world where, we don’t say no, or set boundaries or give ourselves permission to take care of ourselves.
I found myself buying into the long history of role models that sacrificed themselves for the “honor” of being the capable caregiver. I gained my sense of value by buying into this narrative. If I handle EVERYTHING, sacrifice my time and my dreams, I am a good wife, mother, daughter and friend. I’d rather choose the devil I know, being the caregiver, because I am extremely comfortable in that role. I know who I am when I am the caregiver. I would choose to walk on a broken ankle, then allow my family to take on the caregiving role. I would suffer alone and hobble behind in pain.
By not asking for what I need, I'm basically shutting myself out. My life is less interesting if I push people away and try to go it alone. When I do this, I risk losing the rewards of deep meaningful relationships and experiences. When we are vulnerable, when we ask for help, when we show up and don’t hide the messy bits of ourselves, we are giving others a green light to do the same. Let me emphasize this: it's a big part of my mantras.
When we ask for help, we give permission for others to ask for help, as well as to help.
When we are brave and take risks, it shows others that it's okay for them to take chances too.
When we cry, we give permission for others to cry and be comforted.
When we play and act goofy, it's an open invitation for others to loosen up, be silly, and have a good time.
When we show up as our authentic selves, it's a signal to others that they can drop their masks and be authentic.
When we love, we give others the permission to love us back.
Generational patterns can be broken by unpacking and questioning our beliefs. Limiting beliefs can be shifted. When this happens, we are teaching our children and others, by our actions, a different approach. A more balanced and joyful way of living. We are modeling healthy relationships, especially with ourselves. We don’t need to fit ourselves into someone else’s box. We can shape our lives into any form. Just because everyone in your world does or thinks a certain way, doesn’t mean it is right for you.
Collectively and individually, we all matter. Our unique views and voices matter. Our creativity, knowledge, playfulness, and love are powerful tools to support each other.
We must strive to walk under ladders into the unknown. We must get into wheelchairs and ask for help before we break down. We don’t need to choose suffering or walk into the fire. Maybe if we opened ourselves up and chose to walk under the ladder or get into a wheelchair, things would be easier, more fun.
Honestly, the "wheelchair" Disney trip was one of the best ever. My broken ankle made us all slow down and really be in the moment instead of rushing on autopilot from one attraction to another. We laughed so much, and I learned to laugh at myself. I was able to receive the love of my family. They didn’t once leave me alone. Instead, they held the space for me to enjoy our vacation, even though I was injured. It gave my kids the opportunity to practice being caregivers, navigators, and young adults. As Disney often is, it was "magical."
Let's show our vulnerability.
Let's stop trying so hard to control things.
Trust that you will be okay.
It may be better than imagined.