Making Space for a Different Story Friendship, motherhood, and what I’m learning about change
The day before my son’s third birthday, I forgot my swimsuit.
I was at the pool with my two children and their other parent. Without my swimsuit, I stayed out of the water while they went in. My son was wearing his life vest, but until then, he had been too scared to move away from the steps and explore the water without someone holding him.
That day, he did.
He moved off the steps, supported by his vest, with his other parent in the pool. He squealed and laughed with so much joy at what he was discovering he could do.
Later, in my IIRP class, Narrative Inquiry for Empowering Facilitators, Dr. Frida Rundell invited us to explore a moment of joy as a “sparkling moment.” I chose that one.
As we talked, I wondered what might have happened if I had remembered my swimsuit. I probably would have been holding him. I don’t know whether I would have given him that same opportunity.
That realization was uncomfortable. I had witnessed his delight, his confidence, and his willingness to try something that had frightened him. And I could imagine my own anxiety leading me to intervene before that moment had a chance to unfold.
As I remember our conversation, Frida helped me turn that reflection toward a question about what I could give myself space for, or loosen my hold on, in the coming week.
The question I have carried with me is:
Can I pause and create space so that a different story may unfold?
Knowing something and living it
This is something I return to in Montessori, too.
When I work with teachers, we talk about observing before stepping in. A child carries something awkwardly, spills it, and has an opportunity to notice what happened, participate in cleaning up, and try another way. In an ordinary, manageable situation, an adult’s quick intervention can interrupt the experience we want the child to have.
I understand the value of that space. I train teachers in it.
And in my personal life, I struggle with those same things.
With my own children, there is love, responsibility, and anxiety in the moment. An assumption I’m beginning to examine is: if I’m not protecting my son, he will get severely hurt, and it is my job to prevent that.
The pool moment did not erase my responsibility for safety. It made me curious about how I carry that responsibility, and what opportunities my usual response might leave unexplored.
The stories I tell about my time and my space
Over the last two years, I have made several moves. Moving within Maryland changed how easily I could spend time with friends. Moving from Maryland to Texas brought a much larger shift.
I have been asking myself: How do I build a village here? How do I build support and friendship? How do I maintain the friendships that are now long distance?
My narrative coursework has given me space to hear myself when I talk with people I love, and when I reflect on my own.
What is the story I’m telling about my time? My space? Who I spend time with?
I’ve also been looking more concretely at what I do. How often am I texting people? Calling them? Reaching out? How am I responding when someone reaches out to me?
I want the story to be different from the way I have been telling it. That has meant paying attention to both the possibilities I can imagine and the practical conditions that let me act on them.
Building a deeper bench
One of my first steps was finding a regular babysitter so I could attend my classes and do the work they require.
That took effort: finding someone who fits with me, my children, our lifestyle, and the schedule we need. Once I found someone I felt good about, I began thinking about backup support.
How deep is my bench? What happens when that sitter is unavailable? My family matters enormously, but their availability does not always align with mine.
Then the question began expanding from what I need to what I want.
I want time for hobbies. I want opportunities to meet people outside the routines of where I take my children. I want to ask what I enjoy and intentionally create room for it.
Going somewhere because it interests me also creates the possibility of meeting people with overlapping interests and availability. I’m trying to create spaces where connection can develop naturally.
As a single parent, I carry responsibilities that could otherwise be shared among multiple adults. Building support is something I want for my children, too. I hope their circle of trusted people can grow, along with their comfort in receiving care from others.
What am I trying to protect?
Alongside narrative inquiry, I have been studying change in my IIRP course, The Challenge of Change: Intrapersonal and Relational Models and Strategies.
Robert Kegan and Lisa Laskow Lahey’s Immunity to Change framework explores how a desired change can coexist with competing commitments and underlying assumptions that make our current actions feel necessary. A map makes those patterns available for examination; careful experiments can help us learn about the assumptions beneath them.
I haven’t completed a full immunity map around friendship, support, or mom guilt. I’m beginning to recognize questions I want to explore.
When I imagine leaving my children to do something enjoyable for myself, I worry that they will need connection or security that they won’t receive in the same way from someone else. I picture them upset, with no one helping them through their feelings, or an adult responding with punishment.
That fear is specific. It also tells me something about the kind of care I want them to receive.
I have seen our sitter respond kindly when my children were having a difficult time. That has helped me trust her.
Multiple people have also told me that my children express more emotion just before I leave or when I return than they do while I’m away. I can’t personally witness those periods of my absence, so I’m trying to consider their reports alongside what I have seen.
I’m trying to trust that both things can be true: my children can express strong feelings around leaving and returning, and they can also receive kind care while I’m gone.
Holding those possibilities affects how much I check my phone. It affects how present I can be with other people. That time does more to fill my bucket, and I feel more present and excited to return.
I’m still learning what trust looks like when I cannot personally observe everything.
A mind I love, and the worries that can occupy it
I have ADHD. I don’t know which parts of my thinking come from ADHD and which are simply part of being me, but I make connections quickly and widely.
Subjects that may seem far apart to someone else often fit together in my mind. I speak quickly, react quickly, and have follow-up questions quickly.
I love thinking this way.
When anxiety gets involved, though, I notice more repetitive thinking. My attention settles on future worries and how to avoid them.
A response can look immediate from the outside even when I have spent a long time anticipating the situation. By the time it happens, I may already have decided what I’m going to do.
That is one place where I’m practicing the pause. Can I notice what is happening now, alongside everything I’ve imagined might happen?
Listening to the conversation—and to myself
On a first date, I noticed myself taking small comments and projecting them into possible futures.
Would this person fit into my life? Would our lifestyles work together? What did that answer tell me?
Those questions mattered. I ultimately felt we were not a good match, and I believe my reflection helped me recognize that.
Looking back, I also wonder whether all that analysis occupied space I could have used to notice my immediate experience. Much of the conversation wasn’t engaging to me. We were in a beautiful location, but I wasn’t feeling the connection I had hoped for.
Banter that had felt flirty and enjoyable over text fell flat in person. Sometimes I felt I was performing cuteness or wittiness rather than expressing it naturally. There had been a lot of buildup, and I had expectations of my own.
When something felt performative, I asked more questions. I wanted to understand what I was picking up on. Was I overthinking, or was there something in the interaction I wanted to pay attention to?
Sometimes I could identify it. Other times, even after more questions, I couldn’t. That uncertainty felt strange, too.
I want room to notice all of this: what someone says, how we engage, and how I experience being with them. I want to be witty when I feel witty, flirty when I feel flirty, and present enough to discover what actually flows between us.
Discernment with room for surprise
For me, discernment begins before an interaction.
What kind of relationship am I looking for? What do I need from it? What are the few things that must be present, or cannot be present, for it to work?
A friend I share a hobby with, someone in my close circle, a caregiver, and a romantic partner involve different expectations. Those needs can shift as my life changes.
Everyone has dignity, stories, and wisdom. I love meeting people and learning from them. Choosing whom to invite into a particular role asks additional questions about what works for both of us.
Preparing helps me direct my energy. It also helps me recognize unexpected possibilities. A date might reveal little romantic compatibility but a shared interest in entrepreneurship. Perhaps a different connection could grow, if we both wanted it.
Afterward, I can reflect on the experience. How did I feel working out with that person? Did we help each other toward our goals? Would I love to work out with them again?
Those questions keep me close to what we actually experienced together.
Letting a human moment have its own value
In this season of moving and rebuilding, I have different needs and vulnerabilities than before.
When connection feels good, I can get swept up in what it might become.
Kindness and compassion can soothe loneliness. A warm human moment is beautiful and worth having. I also want to notice when that relief tempts me to leap toward assigning someone a role I’m hoping to fill.
Enjoying an interaction does not yet tell me whether someone would be a healthy romantic partner or a trusted person in my children’s village. Those questions take their own time and attention.
I want to allow connection to grow without loading it with expectations too quickly.
I’m noticing small differences already: how I perceive people when I enter a room, the casual smiles and nods, and the space I have to participate when I’m away from my children.
I’m still building my village. I’m still examining the stories I tell about what is possible.
And I’m still returning to that moment at the pool, my son’s laughter, and the question it opened for me:
Can I pause and create space so that a different story may unfold?
Acknowledgments and further reading
The “sparkling moment” reflection described here arose in my IIRP course, RP 635: Narrative Inquiry for Empowering Facilitators, with Dr. Frida Rundell. The account of our conversation is my recollection, rather than a verbatim quotation.
My reflections on change also draw on RP 667: The Challenge of Change: Intrapersonal and Relational Models and Strategies, and on Robert Kegan and Lisa Laskow Lahey’s Immunity to Change framework. These are personal reflections in progress; I have not completed a full immunity map for this topic.
