Somewhere in the midst of the haze of the pandemic – back when days, weeks and months blurred together to form a moment in time – my parents decided to sell my childhood home. It was an emotional endeavor, one that involved sorting through over 40 years’ worth of memories that had been shoved into every nook and cranny of the house.
When I was summoned to the basement to sort through the pile of my stuff that remained despite me not living under that roof for nearly 15 years, I was dismayed by how much I had accumulated. Overwhelmed, I took it home, only to move it all again a year later when my husband and I ourselves relocated, never properly examining the contents that threatened to explode the Rubbermaid bins.
But this spring, in an effort to lighten my load, I found myself in my own basement, sorting through boxes of belongings and – inevitably – the time had come to open those grey-blue containers labeled in my mother’s handwriting as mine. Removing the lids, I saw spiral journals – lots of them. Glossy prom pictures. Broken pointe shoes. Awards.
And then there was one thing that prompted me to reach inside.
Peeking out from the remnants of my adolescence was the hint of the palest yellow. Satin rubbed bare, although I could feel it as new in my mind. I pulled it out and what emerged was a 10 in. x 10 in. square of my figurative and literal security blanket. Affectionally known as “Blankie” it was my first and truest companion. If I’m being honest, I can smell its comfort right now as I write.
But Blankie, of course, was not always a 10x10 square. It was – hence its name – a full blanket that practically doubled me in size. My favorite part, however, was that satin edge, specifically one certain corner, which I rubbed against my nose, while repeatedly saying “corner, corner, corner.” Today, someone would say that toddler me had sensory issues. Who knows.
My mother knew, though, that to me, the most important part of my Blankie was my corner, so when the time came to break me of my habit around the age of 3, she slowly began to cut away. I cannot recall how long it took, but I do know there were several iterations of Blankie. Right up until the only thing I needed – that corner – was what remained.
So as I found myself standing in my basement, holding what would likely look to anyone else like a rag, I couldn’t help but think of my mother’s approach to freeing me from what I thought I needed to keep me safe. It was gradual. Patient. So slow I didn’t even realize it was happening.
So much so, that it proved to me I could leave it behind and walk away.
Isn’t it funny that as adults we don’t treat ourselves with such kindness? That when we identify a need for change or growth, we force it upon ourselves, often taking drastic measures, expecting to ditch ingrained habits with ease – and then shaming ourselves when these efforts “fail”?
Couldn’t we benefit from more patience – more slowness – when it comes to editing parts of ourselves we’ve always identified with?
Couldn’t we all win by getting very clear about what it is we truly need?
Truth is, as adults, we all have grown-up versions of security blankets. Behaviors, people, affiliations that make us feel safe.
But they’re not always serving us. Many times, they’re actually preventing us from growing.
Which is why – over time – we must find the courage to cut them down to size.
Right up until it is realized that we can walk away.