I’ve decided that I can never return to that particular café. After the barista repeatedly asked if I had an “outie,” I lost my composure and snapped, “What’s wrong with you? Why would you even ask that?!” His reaction was one of surprise as he replied, “I thought we had the same car,” gesturing toward the Audi key in my hand.
This encounter served as a painful reminder that I struggle with listening. My barista wasn’t entirely blameless either; every week, I give him my name, and every time, he writes “Jazz” on my cup. I find a strange comfort in being viewed as intriguing enough to have a name like that. Yet, when the awkwardness subsides and I place my order, I can’t help but realize I am speaking in a way that sounds almost unrecognizable, leading me to question my listening skills, both to myself and to others—especially my teen.
My daughter, now a newly minted teenager, often claims I don’t listen to her. But I do. It’s just that I frequently dread what I hear; it signifies that my beloved little sidekick is growing up and distancing herself from me—probably heading straight for the affections of someone like Dylan O’Brien. Or perhaps Drake. I find myself wanting to resist this change. It’s already difficult to let go, but how do I truly listen when I’m afraid of hearing echoes of my own discontent about this stage of her life?
Her thoughts no longer mirror mine, and that’s unsettling. Why did I encourage her to question authority? I meant it to empower her, not to fuel her rebellion against me. I lament the loss of her childhood, yearning to rewind the clock and stuff a much-changed kid back into a Baby Bjorn. Instead of recognizing the young woman she is becoming, I inadvertently stifle her, urging her to stay the innocent, sweet child she was at age seven. I must stop trying to quell the emotional turmoil that is essential for her growth into a person separate from me. This is not a graceful process.
I suspect I project too much onto her. There’s a direct correlation between her maturation and my heightened sensitivity to what I hear. Suddenly, her innocence feels threatened, and every utterance seems alarming. When puberty hit in sixth grade, I even found myself irrationally yelling at the pediatrician, “Next time you ask my 11-year-old about school, make sure to say ‘grade’ so it doesn’t sound like you asked her, ‘So how do you feel about SEXth grade so far?’”
When she was safely curled up in my arms, I didn’t listen as closely. In fact, I conveniently ignored that nagging voice that asked, “Is your kindergartner’s Halloween costume truly a ‘bunny ballerina’? Or are you sending her to school dressed as a Playboy Bunny?” It seemed harmless then.
Now, however, the stakes feel higher. I understand that adolescence is just another normal phase, yet it seems fraught with greater dangers: sex, technology, drugs. This is a far cry from potty training and toddler lisps—areas where I felt a semblance of control. I scramble to shield her from potential pitfalls, often trying to fix every problem with barking orders instead of listening. This approach isn’t working. If I continue down this path, she may stop confiding in me altogether.
Communication between us has become strained as I struggle to penetrate her teenage defenses. The pressure to compete with Instagram for her attention is immense. When discussing her daily stresses, I envision a heartfelt moment set to “Lean on Me,” only to be met with silence as she tweets away.
My friends assure me I have it easy, that their relationships with their teens are far colder. For me, it’s not animosity; it’s humility. It’s incredibly challenging to allow the person who opened my heart and taught me joy the space to grow apart from me. Acknowledging that I cannot shield her from every hurt or disappointment is both humbling and daunting.
My attempts to impart wisdom often fall flat. I find myself sharing what I think are profound insights, only to realize they are met with eye rolls. I might as well be trying to lock a Club onto a Yugo—my efforts are misguided. I desperately want her to heed my advice, but she hears it as a burden of caution rather than guidance.
I must cease placing roadblocks on her path to independence by trying to smooth out the messy process of adolescence. I forget that she is learning to navigate her own world, and honestly, I’m not the epitome of well-balanced adulthood myself. As time marches on, I am learning that refusing to listen won’t stop the clock.
Perhaps by the time my younger daughter enters her teenage years, I will have mastered the art of listening. I’ll strive to be more “Jazz” and less controlling. However, my inability to listen cropped up again just recently. When my seven-year-old read from a Disney Fairies book and inexplicably dropped the final “n” from words, a story about “barns” and “horns” took on an entirely different meaning.
I need to stop perceiving threats and instilling fear at every developmental stage of my daughters’ lives. I want to truly hear what they are grappling with. I practiced this with my younger daughter when she announced, “I only sleep with black guys.” Alarmed, I held back the impulse to respond too quickly and, instead, I listened as she clarified, “I don’t want these stuffies with blue eyes, just black eyes.”
If I make an effort to truly listen, I might actually hear a lot more than I expect.
This article was originally published on June 23, 2015.
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Summary:
The author reflects on the importance of truly listening to her teenage daughter amid the challenges of adolescence. She acknowledges her struggles with fear and control as her child grows up, realizing that her attempts to guide her daughter often hinder rather than help. Through humorous anecdotes and personal revelations, she learns the value of stepping back and genuinely hearing her children, recognizing that growth comes with its own set of challenges that she must accept.