Do you listen to hear or do you listen to fix?

“I don’t want you to do anything, I just want you to listen!” was the exasperated retort emanating from the inimitable pout of my teenage daughter.

We were in the car together one cold, gloomy Monday, halfway through the drive to get to my daughter’s school.

I’m not a morning person at the best of times, and in the depths of winter even less so.

A bulky parka jacket, a cosy beanie hat, an oversize scarf, and my most favorite leather mittens: this was my armour against the elements and my best attempt at making the transition bearable from the enveloping warmth of my duvet to my outside adulting obligations.

The first-world semi-luxury of the heated seat feature in my car was also helping. I'm not embarrassed to admit that there’s nothing like a warm posterior to con your body into feeling that things might actually be alright out in the world.

All of that to say, I wasn’t much in the mood for conversation. I just wanted to glumly contemplate the road ahead and silently nudge myself into a higher gear, mentally preparing myself for the day ahead; a day routinely full of things to remember and things not to forget.

My daughter, however, was very much in the mood for a chat. Actually, it was less of a chat (which is usually characterised as a pleasant and bidirectional interaction), and more of a one-way tirade against her teenage universe.

I was involuntarily bearing witness to a harried and breathless stream-of-consciousness rant against one and sundry, from the waste of time that is her German language class to the bus driver on the 399 route who drives like a lunatic, the scandalous price increase of the kebabs in the local takeaway joint and the length of time the maths teacher was taking to mark her class’s latest test.

To my uncaffeinated, desperately-wanting-to-still-be-asleep brain, the volume and velocity of her words were a veritable assault on my senses. I longed to be back in bed where I could pull the bedclothes up over my head for a little bit of respite from the onslaught of her ire.

It wasn’t a very motherly response and I’m not proud of it, but truth be told, Monday morning had come around too soon and I wasn’t ready for the weekend to already be over.

And that’s when I snapped at her.

“What exactly do you want me to do?” was the terse rejoinder I flung her way, where it landed squarely on a sore spot. My words came out a whole lot harsher than I meant them, but my lack of maternal and matinal emotional self-regulation meant that the overlay of impatience and resentment was palpable.

I felt put upon, unfairly burdened by a host of more "Matters Requiring the Attention of Mum" when the day’s to-do list already felt like it was spanning into a work of several volumes.

In reality, there was no need for me to feel any of this. My feeling of overwhelm was a cognitive artifact of my own creation. Objectively, my daily to-do list was no longer or shorter than any other day, and there were definitely no life-or-death activities on it.

There was nothing about that Monday that made it more complicated than any other day. There was nothing that warranted me feeling in any way oppressed by my lot in life.

Simply put, I was just very grouchy without just cause.

And that’s when my daughter quite rightly called me out on it.

“I don’t want you to do anything about anything”, she retorted indignantly. “I just want you to listen.”

"Deep listening is the kind of listening that can help relieve the suffering of another person. You can call it compassionate listening. You listen with only one purpose: to help him or her to empty his heart." - Thich Nhat Thanh

Now, I’ve had my fair share of parenting fails and clocked up plenty of mistakes over the course of the past two decades. But in an act of self-compassion, I’ve decided to cut myself some slack. If I am going to take full responsibility and be wholly accountable for the things that I’ve done wrong in how I have parented my kids, I’m also going to allow myself to feel good when my offspring show a side of themselves that is remarkable.

Like in this instance, where my daughter showed a disarming level of maturity by very succinctly putting words on what she needed in that moment.

She knew what she wanted from me and she told me. Clearly. With no ambiguity.

She didn’t want or need a fixer. She wanted and needed a listener.

She didn’t want my action. She wanted my attention.

She didn't want me to do anything other than hold space for her and in so doing, show that I care.

My girl taught me two big lessons that morning. The first one is that I have a tendency to make my mental load heavier than it needs to be by assuming that the problems and difficulties encountered by people in my periphery are mine to fix.

They're not.

For sure, I might be able to contribute in some useful way; I might be able to alleviate the woes of another person in a given situation. But my daughter - with a bit of a figurative slap in the face - opened my eyes to the fact that I help nobody by unduly burdening myself with a load that isn't mine to carry in the first place and then getting grumpy about it.

The other thing she taught me through her own example is that sometimes people need help in the form of action. But not always.

There are times when all people need is to not be left alone with their problems.

With a wisdom that belies her young years, my girl showed me that there are moments when what matters most is offering an attentive ear that cares.

“Smile. Breathe. And go slowly.” - Thich Nhat Thanh

We both took a breath as we sat together at the traffic lights, waiting for the red to turn green which it eventually did, in its own sweet time.

And as the car re-accelerated, I noticed how our conversation also took on a whole different kind of energy. It began to flow.

I let go of my assumed mental burden. I unclenched. I opened up.

And in an act of synchronicity and reciprocity, so did she.

For the remainder of the drive, my daughter told me about the many things that were on her mind. I didn't challenge her. I didn't question her.

Instead, I sat in presence behind the wheel of my car and held space for her. It didn't feel heavy. I felt no resentment. I felt with her, a little bit closer to her than usual.

All she needed were my ears and a space for her to be heard.

And it felt really good to be able to give her what she needed.

My child taught me that we all can give each other this precious gift: a compassionate ear to listen and a safe space to speak.

Sometimes, in our quest to feel better, the most important thing is to know how to stake a claim to what we need and ask for it.

When we're brave enough to say the words, we might just find that there are a whole lot more friendly ears around us to listen than we thought.

Friend, there's no need to be alone.

Our struggles feel so much lighter when we take them on together.

?AJ