Compassion is Dependent upon Curiosity

Compassion sounds easy, but I had a mental block that would not let me practice it. I was very much in my head with my thoughts and consumed with stress and the pressure to be enough. I did not have the mental energy leftover for compassion for myself or my son. He is a beautiful boy inside and out, but he zapped the energy and life right out of me. I watched how he was with others and wondered why I don’t get that version of him. Others told me how polite and kind he was. He saved for me the version of himself that required my patience and self-control. To me, he was a volatile person. He took all the oxygen in the room.

Other mothers and sons I knew spoke with each other with ease, treating the other with respect and patience. Why couldn’t I do this with my son? Why did I start conversations with great intentions, and then two sentences into the conversation, I had no more energy for him? It wasn’t a lack of want that prevented these conversations. I knew how important they were, how crucial they were in building self-confidence in children, and how they show love in the relationship. I love my child and want nothing more for him than to brim with confidence and be a radiant light in the world. So why was it that attempts at conversations with him went south so quickly? We would end up arguing and even yelling within a 5-minute car ride.

Upon reflection, I carried around a lot of stress. I had a crazy work schedule with ridiculous deadlines, and I could not disengage. In addition, I was Mom. I cooked, cleaned, and chauffeured kids all over town while trying to fit it all in. My family could not see how much I sacrificed, so they kept adding to the demands. I felt invisible.

As a family, we did not have healthy reactions to stress, which became a big problem. It caused meltdowns for my son and caused me to be distracted, to not listen to what was said, and to grow frustrated. He got offended because he had to repeat himself. I got irritated because he wouldn’t.

Compassion, on the other hand, is looking at my child, and taking it all in. Before saying a word to him, before taking whatever action he did personally and getting angry or frustrated, it is looking within myself to imagine what is his side. Next is the understanding that what he did may not be right, but somewhere within his motivation is some right in his thinking. It is separating the thoughts that led up to the action, from the inappropriate act itself. And it is in knowing he does some stupid things, but he doesn’t choose to live this way. Who would?

When I really saw my son, I saw he didn’t have coping skills. It didn’t matter how much I lectured, gave examples, tried to help him think through after the fact. They just weren’t there. It felt as if he never learned from his mistakes. And, in actuality, he did not. Where I would get insulted because I was being ignored, and let’s face it, moms have great advice to give; he felt angry because I was always on him. I couldn’t figure out why would he not want to learn from me the lessons I learned the hard way. He would get frustrated with me because I just didn’t get it, didn’t get him. And I had that “mom tone.” Tempers would flare in no time.

I couldn’t do compassion until I could figure out curiosity. A therapist asked me to ask questions of my son with genuine curiosity. I could not. There was too much friction. And we had habits that derailed conversations. During our family therapy sessions, I listened to her ask him questions with this genuine curiosity. I watched how he reacted. He enjoyed being an expert on his feelings and thoughts and answering her interest. I made a note.

It wasn’t easy. I would repeat the goal to myself often—be curious, appear curious. We started slowly. It was when I stopped making myself responsible for teaching him life lessons in every conversation and instead allowed him to show me what he had learned, that is when curiosity came. Once I didn’t feel the overwhelming urge to correct his thought processes, to apply the conversation to a life lesson, to give examples explaining why/how this would be useful in the future, I could listen. I had to stop thinking about how to mother every moment we were together but to hear him. Then I relaxed, and he did too. It wasn't so much that I became a mom with compassion, but that by changing the perspective, he stopped aggravating me, which allowed me to listen, and in the unintended results, I found that compassion.