Smarty Pants

life lessons beyond the classroom

Photo by Ihor Malytskyi on Unsplash

Somewhere in storage, I have a high school diploma and a framed, four-year degree from a well-respected university. I have a decent résumé, several overstuffed bookcases filled with smart-sounding titles, and a list of certifications under my belt. Even a few awards.

But after nearly fifty years of inhabiting this planet, I am convinced that my greatest learning has happened far beyond the classroom or conference room.

My education has taken place in hospitals where words are muttered that no one is prepared to hear. Words like paralysis, cancer, stroke, tumor, infertility, pancreatitis, chemotherapy, aphasia, embolism, dementia, depression, malignancy, and aneurysm. Terms like inoperable and incurable that can take the air right out of one’s lungs.

My education has taken place in rehab centers and recovery circles and therapy offices where hard truth and soft landings meet. Places where unflinching honesty, accountability, and support are offered in abundance. Places where a “me too” from the right person can prove as potent as anything doctors can offer with a needle, pill, or prescription pad.

My education has taken place during my darkest moments—the very ones I’d believed I was most alone, only to later understand they were when I’d been most held by the divine:

• in an MRI tunnel, trembling beneath a paper-thin gown;

• in a hospital bed, medicated and handcuffed to a rail;

• on a mountaintop, tears of grief and rage rolling down the midlife valleys of my own face;

• on a damp pillow, contemplating the point of life and the value of my own.

My education has taken place while sharing my story with hundreds of strangers who felt like family. It has taken place on yoga mats and horse saddles and wooden pews in a forest.

My education has taken place in a nursing home during someone’s final sunset, a spotted hand in my own, and it has taken place in an infant nursery during another’s first sunrise, a babe at my breast.

I’ve been surrounded by teachers my entire life—some with fancy degrees and titles, some with fur instead of skin, and some who simply offer lanterns, not lectures.

Perhaps my greatest teachers have been the versions of me I’ve despised. I’ve learned that love can be as scary as hate, and that both have required deep looks inward.

I have learned in this lifetime not because I remained unscathed but because I have howled and healed countless times.

Many of those scars remain invisible, but I know they are there—tender and tucked close to my heart, keeping me soft in this hard world.

I suppose I felt called to write this today as I’m continuing to reflect on a conversation I had last month with one of my teens. My son was heading off to an in-person final exam. His summer school course was not to skip ahead, nor was it for AP credit. This was a mandatory course to remediate a poor grade. In English, of all things—perhaps the only subject in school I didn’t struggle with. But that’s where our differences end.

I spent years telling myself I wasn’t smart or decorated enough. Years shrinking whenever the conversation came to work or when the dreaded question arose: “And what do you do?”

I’ve been a stay-at-home parent for years, raising my three sons to the best of my ability. Boots on the ground, day in and day out.

My sons struggle with anxiety and learning differences. Over the years, we’ve needed tutors and summer school and speech therapy. My husband and I have spent many long hours, sitting at the table long after sports and dinner, helping them with homework assignments—sometimes as tears fell and pencils flew and chairs tipped. When I first got sober, I was terrified to face these long hours without any type of anesthesia or reward waiting for me in a wine glass on the kitchen counter. Or, in the final years of my addiction, hiding in a tall boot in my bedroom closet.

The morning of my son’s final, he slept through his alarm, awoke late, and declined breakfast. Both of us in foul moods, things began to spiral downward. I knew I needed to shift the energy, especially because I had to leave the house before he did on this particular morning.

I left his room to give us both space, and when I returned, I knew what I wanted to say. And it had nothing to do with English.

“You may not want to hear this right now—not at sixteen—but I see myself in you so much. I always have, but especially in recent years. We share the same wit, the same rebellious streak, the same sensitive side that we sometimes hide. We both struggle to ask for help and avoid facing things when they get tough. What I want you to hear is this: I am so damn proud of you. I love how alike we are. You are so smart that sometimes it scares me. When you put your mind to something, God help all of us.

But I love how smart you are. I’m a smart cookie, too, but I didn’t know it at your age. I spent way too many years counting myself out because of this false belief about myself, and I don’t want you to do the same. You are whip-smart, bud. You pick up on details and cues and subtleties. You are witty and sarcastic. That’s next-level smart in my opinion. People love being around you. Every night there are like twelve pairs of shoes in the garage because of all the friends you make and keep. I’m not worried about you in life, as long as you try. But pleeeeease keep trying. The effort matters so much more than the result. It’s about how you feel about you, most of all.

I’m normally not this long-winded, but my son made no sign of moving from the couch. No reaching for keys or rising to leave. He simply stayed. His body at ease and still. The kind of listening I normally only sense during car rides alone. So I continued:

“Also, be early. Like super early. That parking lot can be a nightmare, and the worst thing to do before anything important—whether it’s a test or job interview or a date—is be late. So go early. Like stupid early. And don’t be first to finish the test. Be one of the last. Even if you think you know the answer right away, slow down and be sure. Slower is always the best speed for me, and we might be alike in this, too, okay?”

I squeezed his shoulder, grabbed my purse, and headed out the door.

A short time later, I received a text on my phone. My son was sitting in a near-empty parking lot, both early and sarcastic as hell. I laughed out loud, loving him for both.

Last month, my son walked out of that final exam with a B- for his overall grade. It was by the skin of his teeth, and we celebrated: hugs, dessert, a phone call on speakerphone to my dad.

Sometimes I do celebrate grades, but I always celebrate effort. Because the former means something, but the latter means everything.

The “82” on this cake is not celebrating someone’s age, but the grade my son managed to pull off in a class he dreaded. Of all the lessons he learned in summer school, I hope it’s how good it feels to feel pride in one’s effort.

Next week, on August 11, will mark two years since my seventeen-year-old nephew took his own life. Two impossible years. Dylan was an AP student, an all-star athlete, and a deeply loved human being. He was magic. He still is.

If this life has taught me anything, it’s this: conversations matter—both the ones we have, and the ones we don’t.

Today, I am smart enough to know that I still have much to learn in this life. But I am also wise enough to know that I do have the right words when they come from a truthful, open heart. Scars and all.

For I am not just a student of this life, but I am a teacher, too.

The same goes for every one of us.

Song to accompany Smarty Pants, dedicated to the wise ones among us offering lanterns, not lectures.

Rescue by Lauren Daigle.

If my words landed with you in any way, please tap the little heart, comment, restack, or subscribe. The connections built here mean so very much to me. xo, Jenny.