As far as I can remember, I’ve found taking care of myself burdensome. I recently discovered I’ve been subconsciously projecting that onto everyone around me, believing that others must see me as a burden, too.
I was talking with my older sister about something she had done for me when I was small, and that I’d thought of as an example of how onerous I must have been to the family system. She told me that ‘burden’ was never how she’d experienced me, and that my dependence on her at that time had been a huge blessing for her, which she cherished.
Is there value to distinguishing between burdening and depending? Does the connotation of distaste have to apply to burden?
I think it *is* very helpful there are huge differentials in how aversive different people find different care tasks. And you shouldn't assume what's hard/awful for you is equally difficult for others. There's the chance for big gains from trade :)
My young adult daughter and I have been reading your Dignity of Dependence book and discussing it. It's really thought provoking, thanks!
It's been liberating to acknowledge that we are all dependent on each other, just more or less at various times in our lives - and that the image of independence as as attainable ideal is pretty much fiction.
Personally, I've gone from considering myself a high energy, competent woman with a physically active job to someone with a chronic spine condition that, while not entirely immobilizing, will likely always limit my physical activity and/or result in surgery with uncertain results.
I'm so thankful for my Catholic faith in the goodness of God, and the knowledge that my value doesn't rest in how much I can physically do. Still hard though :)
My wife and I have coined the term "overly solicitous" to describe an almost pathological urge to avoid being an imposition among my parents and siblings. Or to avoid being a burden, you might say. We have a strongly inculcated sense that it's burdensome to ask for what one wants or needs; to invite oneself over or drop by; to express too strong a preference. Which leads to a sometimes infuriating dance of deference, where instead of saying what we want, we try to guess what each other wants. Knowing that, we then interpret a suggestion or invitation as "I'm guessing you might like this, so I'm willing to burden myself by offering it." rather than "I want this, please help." It's like a hall of mirrors.
One example is: My wife homeschools our two sons, currently 7 and 4. The 7-year-old is homeschooled due to neurological and behavioral challenges that couldn't be met in school. So my wife spends a lot of time arranging outings and field trips for him, and frequently invites my retired parents along -- to the zoo, the aquarium, the science center, the museum of flight, the beach, the playground. They decline about 75% of the time, usually with some form of "that's very generous/kind/thoughtful of you to try to include us" as if she's making a sacrifice or extending herself to make it happen. No! She's partially doing it as a request for help! Two active little kids zooming around a zoo or museum can be a handful. They want to see different exhibits. Maybe one needs a bathroom break. Maybe one has scraped his knee. It's just easier and less stressful, and more rewarding and fun for the boys, if one or both of their grandparents come along.
Another example: My mom had to go to the ER last month. My dad took her, and they had the usual marathon of waiting for a room, then waiting to be seen, then a debate about admitting her overnight. After work and once my wife had started our kids' bedtime, I offered to drop in on them and bring some snacks and drinks. They said no. For the first time I can remember in decades, I directly disobeyed them and went and found them in the ED with the snacks I had bought. My mom was exhausted. My dad was frazzled and at his wit's end. I told him to get some fresh air on a walk while we waited for the attending to circle back and explain their choices. He looked more human when he returned, after 11 hours cooped up in windowless hospital wards. They listened more calmly to the doctor and made the (right, I think) decision to have her admitted, which proceeded quickly and then everyone got some sleep. I returned the next day at lunch with flowers and some reading recommendations. Both my parents said I'd done the right thing and thanked me for coming; that they just hadn't been able to think straight and their knee-jerk instinct to avoid being a burden on me had led them to decline my offer of help.
There are some cultures and families where people tend to respond to thanks with "it's nothing" even when it was something big that they had to make a lot of sacrifices to meet, and then there are cultures and families where people avoid even asking for small things of others, and are overly apologetic or effusive in their thanks when it really was just a minor inconvenience and they need to recalibrate.
All that to say, I think "it's nothing" or "no problem" has its proper place as a response to thanks for help, as long as it's truthful.
I've been reflecting recently on a multi-year period when my then-teen daughter was very ill, which culminated in a 5-month hospital stay. I've come to realize that I was deflecting her "burden-hood" during her illness through my own hyper-competence and controlled distance. By focusing on the next thing I could control (logistics, survival strategies, fixing her environment -- all the things a loving and devoted caregiver will and must do) I was able to look just slightly to the side of her actual pain.
By trying to hold her chaos at bay in this way, I have come to realize I was subconsciously signaling that her suffering was too heavy to be shared. This created a devastating isolation for us both. I was trying to protect her from being a burden, but I ended up abandoning her to the reality of her experience, to face it alone. My deflection masked itself as strength or protection, (I cringed so much back then when people would tell me, "Wow, you're such a warrior mom..." -- I knew in my heart that something was off about my approach and it took me so much time to realize exactly what) when it was actually a strategy to avoid the vulnerability of being truly helpless alongside this little person I loved.
The most profound acknowledgment I’ve experienced came from my daughter when she later invited me into the story of her experience of that time. She courageously risked rejection to tell me that while I was busy managing her life, she was sitting alone in her pain. And did I care, did her pain truly matter? I imagine those were some of the fearful questions in her heart that she had to face to share with me in this way.
I think reconciliation for us began the moment I stopped trying to be some sort of replacement in all the instability for her and instead encountered her as a witness (openly acknowledging my own fear and pain, mirroring her). Acknowledging the asymmetry of our individual experiences didn't result in some balancing of the scales; for us, it demonstrated the sincere gift of one self to another (in that moment of grace and generosity, her gift of herself to me. She taught me so much in that moment of disclosure about how to love well).
Her invitation initiated in me a willingness to let my gaze fall upon what was true for her without wavering or trying to resolve it -- and this disarmed me. When I stopped pretending the burden wasn't there, it mysteriously became bearable. Turns out the unbearably heavy thing was our mutual isolation.
My daughter and I moved from a state of isolation and mutual survival to a state of being naked and unashamed together, reclaiming a connection that I realized only became possible when I surrendered all need to be self-sufficient. The fear I felt that her suffering would tear me apart were I to stop and sit with it only got to be true as long as I stayed at that measured distance. Once I entered the labyrinth of her pain with her, the isolation and fear evaporated.
I like the idea of graciously acknowledging a gift. Too often we just don't know how to receive a gift—we're too embarrassed to acknowledge someone else's sacrifice, and we're sometimes afraid of being in someone else's debt (especially if we don't trust the other person!).
Perhaps we can try to say, instead of, "You are not a burden," rather, "You are worth it." (I do like the response, "It's my pleasure," as well.)
When I was very young, I think I was already sensing some of these themes but couldn't articulate them—except for a little story I wrote that I titled "Give Me Back My Burden." I ended up changing it to "Lift My Burden," because my test audience (my family) thought the original didn't make sense. And I didn't know how to explain. Now, I think I could.
As far as I can remember, I’ve found taking care of myself burdensome. I recently discovered I’ve been subconsciously projecting that onto everyone around me, believing that others must see me as a burden, too.
I was talking with my older sister about something she had done for me when I was small, and that I’d thought of as an example of how onerous I must have been to the family system. She told me that ‘burden’ was never how she’d experienced me, and that my dependence on her at that time had been a huge blessing for her, which she cherished.
Is there value to distinguishing between burdening and depending? Does the connotation of distaste have to apply to burden?
I think it *is* very helpful there are huge differentials in how aversive different people find different care tasks. And you shouldn't assume what's hard/awful for you is equally difficult for others. There's the chance for big gains from trade :)
My young adult daughter and I have been reading your Dignity of Dependence book and discussing it. It's really thought provoking, thanks!
It's been liberating to acknowledge that we are all dependent on each other, just more or less at various times in our lives - and that the image of independence as as attainable ideal is pretty much fiction.
Personally, I've gone from considering myself a high energy, competent woman with a physically active job to someone with a chronic spine condition that, while not entirely immobilizing, will likely always limit my physical activity and/or result in surgery with uncertain results.
I'm so thankful for my Catholic faith in the goodness of God, and the knowledge that my value doesn't rest in how much I can physically do. Still hard though :)
My wife and I have coined the term "overly solicitous" to describe an almost pathological urge to avoid being an imposition among my parents and siblings. Or to avoid being a burden, you might say. We have a strongly inculcated sense that it's burdensome to ask for what one wants or needs; to invite oneself over or drop by; to express too strong a preference. Which leads to a sometimes infuriating dance of deference, where instead of saying what we want, we try to guess what each other wants. Knowing that, we then interpret a suggestion or invitation as "I'm guessing you might like this, so I'm willing to burden myself by offering it." rather than "I want this, please help." It's like a hall of mirrors.
One example is: My wife homeschools our two sons, currently 7 and 4. The 7-year-old is homeschooled due to neurological and behavioral challenges that couldn't be met in school. So my wife spends a lot of time arranging outings and field trips for him, and frequently invites my retired parents along -- to the zoo, the aquarium, the science center, the museum of flight, the beach, the playground. They decline about 75% of the time, usually with some form of "that's very generous/kind/thoughtful of you to try to include us" as if she's making a sacrifice or extending herself to make it happen. No! She's partially doing it as a request for help! Two active little kids zooming around a zoo or museum can be a handful. They want to see different exhibits. Maybe one needs a bathroom break. Maybe one has scraped his knee. It's just easier and less stressful, and more rewarding and fun for the boys, if one or both of their grandparents come along.
Another example: My mom had to go to the ER last month. My dad took her, and they had the usual marathon of waiting for a room, then waiting to be seen, then a debate about admitting her overnight. After work and once my wife had started our kids' bedtime, I offered to drop in on them and bring some snacks and drinks. They said no. For the first time I can remember in decades, I directly disobeyed them and went and found them in the ED with the snacks I had bought. My mom was exhausted. My dad was frazzled and at his wit's end. I told him to get some fresh air on a walk while we waited for the attending to circle back and explain their choices. He looked more human when he returned, after 11 hours cooped up in windowless hospital wards. They listened more calmly to the doctor and made the (right, I think) decision to have her admitted, which proceeded quickly and then everyone got some sleep. I returned the next day at lunch with flowers and some reading recommendations. Both my parents said I'd done the right thing and thanked me for coming; that they just hadn't been able to think straight and their knee-jerk instinct to avoid being a burden on me had led them to decline my offer of help.
There are some cultures and families where people tend to respond to thanks with "it's nothing" even when it was something big that they had to make a lot of sacrifices to meet, and then there are cultures and families where people avoid even asking for small things of others, and are overly apologetic or effusive in their thanks when it really was just a minor inconvenience and they need to recalibrate.
All that to say, I think "it's nothing" or "no problem" has its proper place as a response to thanks for help, as long as it's truthful.
I've been reflecting recently on a multi-year period when my then-teen daughter was very ill, which culminated in a 5-month hospital stay. I've come to realize that I was deflecting her "burden-hood" during her illness through my own hyper-competence and controlled distance. By focusing on the next thing I could control (logistics, survival strategies, fixing her environment -- all the things a loving and devoted caregiver will and must do) I was able to look just slightly to the side of her actual pain.
By trying to hold her chaos at bay in this way, I have come to realize I was subconsciously signaling that her suffering was too heavy to be shared. This created a devastating isolation for us both. I was trying to protect her from being a burden, but I ended up abandoning her to the reality of her experience, to face it alone. My deflection masked itself as strength or protection, (I cringed so much back then when people would tell me, "Wow, you're such a warrior mom..." -- I knew in my heart that something was off about my approach and it took me so much time to realize exactly what) when it was actually a strategy to avoid the vulnerability of being truly helpless alongside this little person I loved.
The most profound acknowledgment I’ve experienced came from my daughter when she later invited me into the story of her experience of that time. She courageously risked rejection to tell me that while I was busy managing her life, she was sitting alone in her pain. And did I care, did her pain truly matter? I imagine those were some of the fearful questions in her heart that she had to face to share with me in this way.
I think reconciliation for us began the moment I stopped trying to be some sort of replacement in all the instability for her and instead encountered her as a witness (openly acknowledging my own fear and pain, mirroring her). Acknowledging the asymmetry of our individual experiences didn't result in some balancing of the scales; for us, it demonstrated the sincere gift of one self to another (in that moment of grace and generosity, her gift of herself to me. She taught me so much in that moment of disclosure about how to love well).
Her invitation initiated in me a willingness to let my gaze fall upon what was true for her without wavering or trying to resolve it -- and this disarmed me. When I stopped pretending the burden wasn't there, it mysteriously became bearable. Turns out the unbearably heavy thing was our mutual isolation.
My daughter and I moved from a state of isolation and mutual survival to a state of being naked and unashamed together, reclaiming a connection that I realized only became possible when I surrendered all need to be self-sufficient. The fear I felt that her suffering would tear me apart were I to stop and sit with it only got to be true as long as I stayed at that measured distance. Once I entered the labyrinth of her pain with her, the isolation and fear evaporated.
I like the idea of graciously acknowledging a gift. Too often we just don't know how to receive a gift—we're too embarrassed to acknowledge someone else's sacrifice, and we're sometimes afraid of being in someone else's debt (especially if we don't trust the other person!).
Perhaps we can try to say, instead of, "You are not a burden," rather, "You are worth it." (I do like the response, "It's my pleasure," as well.)
When I was very young, I think I was already sensing some of these themes but couldn't articulate them—except for a little story I wrote that I titled "Give Me Back My Burden." I ended up changing it to "Lift My Burden," because my test audience (my family) thought the original didn't make sense. And I didn't know how to explain. Now, I think I could.
Is your book on sale anywhere?
It's on Amazon here: https://amzn.to/4tVq5BR and you can get a 20% discount directly from Notre Dame Press here with the code "14FF20" https://undpress.nd.edu/9780268210335/the-dignity-of-dependence/
Yay! Thank you so much, Leah. It's been on my list for awhile.