What Happened To the Girl Who Used to Dance in the Rain, Anyway?

“It’s going to rain again,” I started, irritated that I’d delayed my plans all day to avoid the humid, summer storms. 

“Yeah,” my husband replied, not paying much attention.

“YES! All day they’ve said it’s going to rain so I waited, and waited, because they said it would clear up this afternoon and now they’re predicting that there’s going to be a downpour in thirty minutes! I swear I don’t even know why we have weather forecasters,” I complain, my ego irritated wondering how-dare-the-world rain on my parade, literally?!

“I think you should just give it up, honey,” my husband said. “What happened to that girl who used to dance in the rain, anyway?” 

Immediately my face turned hot. How could he say such a thing? What does he mean by that, anyway? Suddenly, the tension I felt in my chest along with the heat in my face dissipated as I realized that I had just been pondering the same thing about myself earlier in the day. For months I’d been wondering what happened to my spontaneity, my once main driving force. How did I get to this place, the place where fun is elusive and concern is plentiful? 

Lately, (and by lately I mean for the last ten years) my days seem to consist of potty breaks, snack times, school lunches, paperwork, more paperwork, routines, cleaning, work, baths, and bedtimes, and all the other responsibilities of parenthood and adulthood. By the end of the day, I’m exhausted. Joints that I didn’t even know I had throb and my eyelids become so heavy that it’s impossible for me to hold them up, even with my fingers – trust me, I’ve tried. Before I fall into bed and wake up seemingly ten minutes later to do it all over again the next morning, I inevitably think, “When did I get so old?” 

Part of the struggle is that I don’t consider myself old. That’s what gets me. Old people don’t have unfulfilled ambitions, exercise five days a week, eat somewhat healthily, and raise small children. They spend their mornings playing golf, followed by eating a nice lunch at a sit down restaurant where they bang their coffee cups on the table to let the waitresses know they’d ‘like a warm up, please’. After that, they retire to their homes to watch a little ‘tellie’, take a nap, and go for a leisurely stroll after dinner. Actually, I think I’m beginning to solve my own problem here... These older folks are getting more rest than I do, and they’re having more fun.

Not to mention, everyone around us tells us we’re ‘old’ by the time we hit twenty-five. No one informed me that I had a ‘sell by’ date when I was born. So, excuse me if I’m not a rich and famous child – I was too busy raising children of my own (not that that was much of a wiser choice at twenty-three, completely unprepared, mind you). The point is, we all can’t be Billie Eilish. Although, Billie Eilish is pretty damn cool. 

Us thirty-somethings, forty-somethings, fifty-somethings - we have value and we still have a lot to offer society. Our unique experiences combined with the wisdom and emotional maturity gained from those unique experiences meansomething. What exactly, I cannot be sure quite yet, but that’s why I’m sharing my experiences in a public forum. Let’s see what the experiment of sharing my life experiences does so you don’t have to take the risk just yet. Or, maybe, that’s part of our problem, too. What if our aversion to taking risks, and our need for being the ‘responsible one’ who always plays it safe is another part of this big, convoluted issue? 

Where did the girl who used to dance in the rain disappear to? Part of her was burried by the world, lost in the shuffles of should’s and should’nts, do’s and don’ts. Influenced by others who had already met the fate at the end of the road she was traveling down, luring her into the deep abyss of being everything everyone else thought she should be, the abyss of self-doubt. Another part of her smothered by the constant meeting of other’s needs, and another part stifled by the sheer exhaustion that comes from performing motherhood and adulthood instead of actually living it. 

Performance is such a big part of adulthood for women, especially mothers. We’re often taught from childhood to wear this and not that, say this and not that, be this and not that – we’re taught to be someone other than ourselves. There’s no bigger accolade society can award a mother with than the award for martyrdom. Validation is a helluva drug for our nervous systems, and we chase it for most of our adult lives because we were conditioned to surrender everything, even ourselves, for the promise of praise, the promise of love and adoration. The validation never lasts long and slips through our fingers as swiftly as it came, leaving many of us with resentment. Resentment that no one appreciates what it took us to get to this place, what we left behind to ensure that everyone around us need not sacrifice to feel seen, to feel like they are somebody. Resentment that everyone asked us to throw ourselves away without so much as even a ‘thank you’ in the end. These brats should be appreciative for what I’ve given them! I raised this man’s children, he should be grateful! These are thoughts which cross our minds often when we commit to martyrdom, when we internalize and commit to the ideas of what others insist we should be instead of listening to our soul, the one who knows our true nature within, our true self. 

The good news is that you don’t have to commit to martyrdom, and in fact, you shouldn’t! Luckily, it’s just a program in your brain that was placed there sometime when you were young, when you thought you had to be a martyr in order to be loved. Throw that shit away. It’s trash. 

I spent years of my life on that martyrdom path, on the path of being everyone but myself and it was hell. I was miserable. The last few years I’ve slowly been taking steps to reclaim myself, to not be afraid to take up space in this world. Now, I’ve made a commitment to showing up as the person I am today, the work in progress, the not-so-perfect because perfection is an illusion. Not the person I was, not the person I thought I should be, but the person I am today – even if that person doesn’t have all the answers, because spoiler alert, she abolutely fuckin’ doesn’t. In fact, she forgot to pack her son’s snack for school not even a week ago and still struggles to remember to not get pissed off and cuss someone out in front of the kids in the car while on the freeway. But, you know what? She’s still showing up, still taking it in, processing, and becoming more and more self-aware, re-shaping her perspectives and subsequently, herself. Doing the work means that my sons will see not a perfect person, not a superhuman devoid of emotions and needs, but a person who makes mistakes, has big feelings just like they do, learns, and tries again. I’m their example of a human, being, who is showing up. 

Maybe that’s what this thirty-something has to offer. Youth may be slowly leaving me – let’s be honest, youth is fleeing me. It has taken the one-way train to anywhere but here. I may not be mindful, or graceful, or appropriate one-hundred, eighty, maybe even more like eleven percent of the time, and I may not be young, perky, or accomplished in the ways that our society currently appreciates, but I’m here. I’m here amongst all you others, all of you putting yourselves on the line. Not that showing up exonerates you from being wrong, it actually holds you accountable. I certainly will continue to really fuck things up from time to time, but at least my reflection upon those choices means I’m showing up and I’m doing the work that’ll influence the lives of my children, and maybe even the lives of others, too. 

Now it’s time to answer the question my husband asked, What happened to that girl who used to dance in the rain?  She’s still here, underneath it all, waiting for the next rainy day to come out and say hello.