“Stop! Don’t go near the road!” I yell after my three-year-old who darts across the grassy area of the park toward the car-filled road. She doesn’t slow until she’s within inches of the asphalt, her Cheetah sneakers skidding to a stop. Then she turns and gives me the “see I listened” smirk. 

“JJ!” she shrieks, “No! Stop!” as my two-year-old nephew follows her toward the street.

“You don’t go in the road,” she chides him as she grabs his wrist and drags him back to our picnic area. 

***

“Get back from the water!” I shout at my almost five-year-old son. “Just throw the duck food from the grass!” Instead of stopping, he takes three more full speed steps toward the edge of the lake and my heart stutter steps as he shuffle-stops while hurling a handful of nuts and seeds (and miraculously not himself) into the murky water.  

He turns and gives the same “whatcha gonna do about it” face as his sister. 

Not even a minute later, he’s blocking my nephew from the edge. 

“Mom said don’t go near the edge!” he barks in my nephew’s face. My son juts out his chin in an expression of self-righteousness I can only assume he learned directly from me. 

“Do as I say, not as I do” starts young, y’all. 

***

I am sure I dabble in hypocrisy of all stripes, but today I want to talk about grace. As an Enneagram One, I am quick to extend grace and kindness to my friends, but view that same grace as weakness in myself. 

My husband gifted me a two-night solo staycation at a beach cottage in my favorite neighborhood last week for my birthday. 

It was as dreamy as it sounds. I woke up to the sound of waves instead of squabbling children. I walked on the beach and scootered around the harbor and treated myself to my favorite restaurants and finished a book I’d been meaning to finish for months (maybe a year?). 

The book: “The Lazy Genius Way” by Kendra Adachi. I highly recommend the whole book for life hacks with no pressure and echoes of grace. The chapter that stood out the most to me was titled, “Be kind to yourself.”

Yeah, right. I agree with this in principle but it’s a tall order, indeed. I (often) get told that I should talk to myself like I would talk to a friend (where my Enneagram Ones at?). 

I understand, in theory, that I am harder on myself than I would ever be on anyone else. My inner critic is a LOUD and bossy B. 

In her chapter, Kendra took the advice a step further. She encourages readers not to treat themselves like a friend, but to remember you are your own friend.

“The Lazy Genius Golden Rule says that you are your own friend.

You’re not a project. 

You’re not something to be fixed and sculpted and assessed on a daily basis.

You’re a person of value as you are right now, and that person deserves your kindness because she is your friend.” 

For some people, the distinction between “like a friend” and “you are a friend” may be unnecessary, but for me, the difference is critical. 

When I try to treat myself like a friend, my inner critic doth protest. “But you know better...But you should have…But you could have...” too many big Buts. 

It’s harder to argue with a truth. I am human; therefore, I am my own friend. 

Now what does that look like in practice? 

I don’t know about you, but I have trouble sitting in silence. The silence is where my inner critic's voice can roar. So I fill the silence with Insta-stories and scrolling and writing to do lists on Post-its and Podcasts and Polos. Anything to fill the space. 

Not that any of these are inherently bad. Yet I don’t want to consume or connect as a means of avoidance. I want to be able to leave my phone in the other room. To sit in silence. To pray. To reflect. To just be. 

Here’s where the friend metaphor comes in handy. How would I fill the silence with a friend? 

I think of those moments during playdates, when the kids are busy scooping sand “ice cream” into leftover cardboard coffee cups or traversing up the slide with gripper shoes. We have a few moments of relative silence as my friend thinks through an answer to a question I just asked. 

I think of those lulls in the conversation as a friend sips a cold brew or pinches sushi with chopsticks. 

In the silence is kindness, anticipation, not ridicule or critiques. I am quick to 

• Assume the best 
• Delight in their presence
• Let them be human

What if I did this with myself? What if I could cultivate the comfortable silence of a close friendship?

The silence doesn’t need to be filled with “yeah, but did you think of X” or “what about those errands you still need to run?” Or “Eek, have you thought about those texts you never replied to or the state of your kids’ bathroom, (or bedroom or play area or or or)?” 

If I am thinking about follow up questions for a friend, they would be more in the vein of “How did that make you feel?” or “How can I support you?” Most often, I’m thinking something like, “Wow, so-and-so is pretty awesome.”

What would it look like to fill the silence with kindness for myself? 

Short answer: I don’t know yet. But I want to try. 

Kendra recommends practicing daily acts of kindness. I went to a favorite local shop with hipstery cards and macrame and air plants in glass orbs and monochromatic artisan pots in the trendiest of colors:  terracotta, almond, dusty pink. I found a pair of dainty earrings (thanks for the birthday money, Mom!) with five sparkling stones. 

I can’t explain why I love them, but I just do. They will add a wholly unnecessary but happy sparkle to my days of school drop offs and lesson planning. I am hoping that when I catch a glimpse of their shine, I will be reminded that I am a friend. Fully worthy of love and delight and joy and grace in this moment. Not when I arrive at _____. Not when I complete my to do list. Not when I (finally) live up to my potential. 

As I put on my earrings, I pray to Love: 

Please create in me a clean heart, bring me rest, help me to release resentment and shame, make room for joy and wonder and surprise. Delight and whimsy. 

Help me cultivate an openness to being still, to listen, to not fill the void or the anxiety or the anger with more stimulation to drown out the hurt or the questions or the Inner Critic. Help me to reach out to You, to seek Your presence instead of likes and instagram updates. 

***

I look out over the lake as my kids and nephew scream “DUCKS!” scaring away the birds they hope to feed as they fling seeds into the water. My kids are slow to follow life-giving (and saving!) instructions yet quick to impart their wisdom on their younger cousins. 

I am the bossy cousin, I know. I am learning to be a friend.