GROWTH HAPPENS
Yesterday, I grew two inches. It was something sudden that I didn’t expect. But very much evident. I know it sounds odd to say. But I grew though, no one around me noticed. It happened as I was sitting at my desk. My phone buzzed as I was sitting there, pecking away at the keyboard. It was an incoming group text from a friend. It was short and to the point but very much disturbing. She noted that she was devastated as she had recently begun to experience severe hair loss. Hair, especially for women and Black women, is a whole sentence. So much is connected to our hair – the history of how we wear it, the struggle to tame it and for many of us the negativity surrounding it. It can be kinky, coily, curly, or wavy. Twisted, braided, or finger waved. We can sport a short pixie (shoutout to Toni Braxton, for giving us the 1990s prototype), a Yaky hair that extends down our back, or a shoulder-length bob. A mohawk, faux hawk, or the statement getting Afro. We can rock any of them with full confidence. Our hair is an extension of who we are. But deeper than stylish coils displayed in a twist out is the intimate relationship we share with our hair. It can be confounding, the mystery of how to care for strands that don’t conform to standards; that have a mind of their own. Those strands, those precious strands.
My mind stayed all day on the thoughts of my friend. In my typical fashion, I racked my brain for ways that I could help. What could I do or suggest that might help her navigate this problem? Surely there was something I could say, that would make it all better, right? I am becoming a better person. Slowly, but surely. One who learns that listening is far better than speaking. And that understanding is just as important as being understood. And one who learns that I can be intimately aware of a problem and completely absolved of the need to fix it. I struggle with this concept because I have always seen myself as a solutions person. This was a self-proclaimed title I thrust upon myself. As the solutions person, I reached out to her with suggestions on what she could do. Talk to a dermatologist. See a therapist – since her issues could be related to a close family member’s death. But her responses led me to believe that I hadn’t hit on something useful to her. And I struggled with what to do next.
About a year into the pandemic, I gifted myself with therapy. It was a no-brainer considering there were issues in my life that I had not been able to work through. Still, it was a brave move for me, to accept that someone else was needed to help me with problems I couldn’t think my way out of. Therapy has taught me many things about myself. One of them is how I connect my worth as a friend to my ability to help a person solve their problems. If I am unable to help you with your problems with a solution or at least suggestions on what you can do, what good am I to you? Why am I in your circle? Why are you keeping me around? My line of thinking is flawed in so many ways. It incorrectly puts me in a position of being all-knowing. It means I must be incredibly equipped to find solutions to every problem that comes my way. But the fact that I am in therapy speaks to this flaw immediately. I don’t have it all figured out. It also assumes that I am needed to solve your problem. You may be having a bad day and venting, or seriously considering a major change. Neither of those options qualifies me for automatic input into your life. You stating these concerns to me does not give me access to interfere.
I texted my friend, asking how she was doing. Her immediate reply meant I had her attention, so I started asking questions and making suggestions. Well-meaning, though, unsolicited. But what if….” I typed. Then deleted. “How about…” No. I deleted that as well. “So, have you…” Delete, delete, delete. I couldn’t produce the next question. I sat baffled. Somewhere in my line of questions and suggestions, it occurred to me that my friend did not ask for help. My pattern of thinking was shifting, slowly. My next text shocked even me.
“How can I best support you?” I typed.
There is so much freedom in admitting you don’t have all the answers. And so much peace, it not feeling the need to wrestle with your thoughts to find them. On a nondescript Friday in April, I grew.