Brilliant … But Bouncy

No One Cares What You Think.

I’ve spent the vast majority of my life believing no one really cared what I thought. My parents seemed to care – and, looking back, I am certain that they did.

They do now.

Recently someone told me that I was still tied to my parents, more so than most adults. That thought has loomed in the back of my mind like a lead balloon, thwonking around.

Then I realized, I am still tied to my parents. I am, because I still believe they are the only ones who care what I think.

Ironically, they are also the ones who gave me the idea that no one else cared.

“No one really cares what you think,” my mother said – many times. “People only care about themselves.”

This statement emerged whenever I was worried about something: my new haircut, perhaps, or what I’d said to the stranger standing next to me in line, or how much money I’d contributed to a local fundraiser.

My mother wanted to make sure I knew that people only thought about themselves, and that I needn’t worry.

But my takeaway, given my propensity toward insecurity, was that – well, no one really cares about me. And I’ve believed that – with or without her words – since the dawn of time.

Why in a million years would anyone care what I think? I’m just a tiny little cog in a billion-person wheel that would turn just fine without me. I never doubted that I was utterly unnecessary on this planet. I never even questioned it.

Then I became a parent.

And suddenly, someone needed me. After a few years, two someones needed me.

They needed me for food and shelter and warmth and comfort. They needed me for security and love. They needed me for all their basic wants and needs – and eventually, they turned to me for … words of wisdom.

I tried very hard to know everything for them. Since I felt like I knew nothing, I read books. Oh, did I read books! And the internet was available for those days when I couldn’t find the right book – so I studied that, too. I researched everything I could possibly research.

I researched until one day, after many years, I read a few words that changed me. They said something akin to this: No matter how much you research, eventually you just have to go with your gut.

And that’s when I became a better mom.

Around that time, I also started to realize: my kids care what I think.

So I started telling my kids every single thing I’d ever thought. Any day could be my last, so I wanted to make sure my boys knew all of the important things I’d been considering over the course of my several decades of existence.

They may have thought I was trying to control them, but I was actually just trying to impart whatever knowledge I had, just in case they needed it.

All of it.

As a result, I’m pretty sure I was a terrible parent. Because when those teen years hit, both boys decided they’d had enough of my knowledge.

And then – completely out of the blue – someone who is not my son said to me (not in these words): “I care what you think.”

I was flabbergasted. Someone else cares what I think?

To be honest, it truly never occurred to me that anyone – ever, anywhere, other than my two forcibly trained children – would care what I think. The concept has been a major awakening for me.

I am awake. And I am still stunned.