By Ashlee Gadd
@ashleegadd

It’s 68 degrees outside, and the sun on my skin feels like a drug. 

My husband, daughter, and I are strolling a familiar loop through our neighborhood, listening to the soundtrack of birds chirping overhead. The cherry blossom trees have just started to bloom, raining down petals like snowflakes with any slight gust of wind. Every front yard contains tiny glimpses of green, hints of hope bursting forth.

Presley is on her pink scooter, right foot steady, left foot dramatically pushing off over and over. She is wearing a matching floral sweatsuit, with a slight diaper bulge in her pants reminding me she is three years old and still not potty trained. Brett loosened the straps on her bubblegum pink helmet before we left, and now the whole thing keeps sliding from side to side, like a cheap toupee. Her hair, sticky with syrup, is matted up underneath in a sea of tangles. 

Suddenly Presley stops and abandons her scooter in the middle of the street, approaching a random house. Before I even have a chance to ask what she is doing, she crouches down, admiring the front yard landscaping.

“Momma, can I take one of dese rocks??”

I take note of the perfectly trimmed shrubs and the lush, manicured lawn in front of us. Whoever owns this home clearly takes pride in their landscaping, and while I do not condone stealing, I can’t imagine the owners would care if Presley takes home one small rock as a souvenir. 

“Just one,” I tell her. 

She reaches down and picks up a silver rock the size of a tealight candle, holding it carefully in her hand as if it is a piece of treasure.

Brett and I watch in slight amusement as she walks back to her scooter and analyzes a new conundrum: how will she scoot and hold her rock?

Without missing a beat, she steps on the scooter and places the rock against the handlebars, curling her right hand around it like a sandwich. 

She pushes off—a little wobblier than before—and keeps going.

***

“So what brings you in today?” the counselor asks. 

I shimmy myself back into the couch, attempting to get comfortable. This room looks and feels the same, even though I haven’t been here since 2019. Same artwork on the walls. Same box of tissues on the coffee table between us. I can’t help but notice the addition of hand sanitizer. 

What brings me in today? This is the question I myself have been trying to answer for two weeks, knowing I’d be asked. I take a deep breath, and consider a variety of answers.

I guess you could say I feel stressed. Overwhelmed. Frazzled and a bit out of sorts. For the past two weeks, I have cried at least once a day, over something, anything, happy or sad. I feel emotionally fragile, like all you have to do is tap me on the shoulder and I could practically burst into tears, a human touch faucet. It’s as if everything I’ve been shoving down inside my body over the past two years—all the things I said I’d deal with later, later, later, after this, after that—are starting to bubble up in my chest and spill out, like a pot of boiling water erupting all over the stove.

What brings me in today? I don’t know. Grief? Unresolved anguish from the past two years? Fear about the future? Am I having an identity crisis? I don’t know what to talk about. Should I talk about the miscarriage? Burnout? Mom guilt? Issues in my marriage? The things I regret? The things I wish I could do over? Is there time to discuss my complicated thoughts about aging? Residual abandonment issues after that devastating friendship breakup four years ago? 

Should I tell her I am sometimes jealous of my husband and think our children love him more than me? 

Should I tell her I’m not sure what’s next for me in my career? That sometimes I wish I could hide in a cave and not be public on the Internet anymore? Is it dumb to talk to a professional therapist about social media? Is it dumb to confess sometimes I feel overwhelmed by really small tasks, like rescheduling a dentist appointment? (Is there something wrong with me?) 

“I’m not sure where to begin,” I finally say. 

***

Presley stops, every ten seconds or so, to readjust the rock in her hand and reset her grip. She looks uncomfortable, yet determined. Over and over, I offer, “Pres, can I carry that rock for you?” Over and over, she shakes her head no. I tell her I will keep the rock safe. I tell her I will put it in my pocket, and give it back to her when we get home.

“No danks, mom,” she replies. 

I’m tempted to roll my eyes at her stubborn independence, but I don’t. I know where she gets it from.

We continue walking the neighborhood, she continues to struggle. She’s having a hard time steering the scooter, and an equally hard time keeping the rock clutched against the handlebar. I contemplate prying the rock out of her hand by force, but I also know that doing so will result in a meltdown and the sun is shining and we’re having such a lovely walk and I don’t want to ruin it. 

Besides, there’s a life lesson lurking here: she needs to learn to surrender the rock herself. 

***

“It sounds like you’re carrying a lot,” the counselor says, her eyes tender with compassion. 

“Aren’t we all?” I say with a small laugh.

I suddenly feel dumb being here, like my problems are not real, like I’ve conjured them up out of thin air. I consider all that is happening in the world: war, homelessness, famine, abuse. I consider all my friends are working through: marital issues far worse than mine, cancer, anxiety, family deaths.

“Should we pick a place to dive in?” she asks.

It’s been ten minutes, and I am hyper aware of the seconds ticking by on the clock. I still don’t know where to start, what to discuss, how to articulate what, exactly, my problem is. How do I explain the hum in my head, the general restlessness and fatigue plaguing me? How do I explain the sudden avalanche of emotions toppling over me each day? There are too many problems to discuss. Yet not one of them seems valid at the moment. 

Tick. Tock. 

I pick one issue on my list, settle back into the couch, and begin talking.  

***

When our house is within eyesight, I ask Presley again, “Can I carry that rock for you?”

Finally, she agrees. She steps off her scooter and hands me the rock, watching me like a detective as I put it carefully into the pocket of my jeans. She gets back on her scooter, grips the handlebar with two free hands, and kicks off. 

I am relieved, both that she seems more steady on her scooter and that we’ll get home faster, but after a few yards, she stops again, hops off, and says, “Momma, can I have my rock?”

I remind her I am willing and able to carry her rock the whole way home, but she is desperate, anxious, holding her hand out in the air, opening and closing her fists repeatedly. 

“I want it back!” she cries, a new sense of urgency in her voice. How my daughter has become completely attached to this rock in the span of seven minutes is beyond me. 

I sigh and return the rock to her hands.

We do this dance a few more times, swapping the rock back and forth, all the way to our driveway. Every time she carries the rock herself, she wobbles on the scooter and can’t ride as fast. Every time I carry the rock for her, she flies down the street, wild and free.

I wish Presley could see what I see. I wish she could admit how much harder it is to move through the world clutching a burden in your fist. I wish I could teach her to let go, to trust me, or someone else, to carry the rock for her.

Then again, maybe I need to model what this looks like. Maybe I need to learn the art of surrender first.

Words and photo by Ashlee Gadd.