When I was a little girl, I had to undergo routine surgical procedures. I cycled in and out of the doctor’s office, my specialist’s clinic, and the same-day wing of the hospital. To say that I hated it would be an understatement. I loathed the needles, the antiseptic smell, and the moment masked nurses put me in a hospital bed and wheeled me away from my parents. I was not allowed to take anything into the operating room with me, so the aides would often pause midway through our journey to blow up a latex glove and draw a face on it with a permanent marker for me to hold. I hated those artificial lovies with their Mohawks and bulbous thumb noses.
These days, I’m fine. And I have been for a very long time. The only residue of those hard years that remains is a severe latex allergy (no joke), an immunity to several antibiotics, a stoic forbearance of needles (they bother me not one iota), and a bit of medical trauma that makes my blood pressure skyrocket even during routine exams.
It wasn’t until my daughter required significant and recurring medical intervention that I began to realize the appalling shortcomings of my own childhood experience. The day of my daughter’s inaugural same-day surgical procedure, the very first person we met at the children’s hospital was her assigned Child Life Specialist. She was a dear, kindhearted woman who came fully equipped with a welcoming grin, an iPad stocked with movies, games, and information about the hospital and all that was to come, and access to a cache of anything and everything to distract and comfort my daughter from coloring books and crayons to fingernail polish, crafts, and toys. Instead of wheeling our girl away from us into a scary OR, my daughter drove herself down the cold, brightly lit hallways in a little electric kid-sized convertible while I walked beside her. And as she fell asleep on the operating room table, she was serenaded by Elsa on the iPad while I held her hand and kissed her off to sleep.
Don’t misunderstand me. I’m in no way insinuating that my daughter’s experience was not painful, difficult, and traumatic. It absolutely was. But in the thirty years between my routine surgeries and hers, we learned a lot about kids, trauma, and how to make the difficult ordeal of medical intervention better, easier, and more humane for children. I once had to be pinned down by three nurses and both my parents so that they could start an IV. Conversely, my daughter was always put to sleep before any needles came out. We’ve come a long way.
But in spite of those early distressing (even scarring) experiences, I hold absolutely no bitterness, anger, or ill-will in my heart toward the people who (often unintentionally) hurt me.
They were doing the very best that they could with the information and understanding that was available to them.
I keep a social media presence (Instagram, Facebook, and Threads) because my day job is writing novels, and since I’d like to keep doing that, I have to sell those books. (Please buy my books!) But lately I’ve had to step back because I’m really struggling with the pervasive victim mentality on my feeds. Everybody has been wronged and everyone seems quick to blame and vilify each and every person who may have had a hand in their hurt whether the offense was intentional or not. Whether sincere apologies were made or not. Whether hanging onto the hurt and frustration will stymie their own growth and happiness or not.
I wasn’t able to fully articulate my discontent until a friend helped me connect the dots. We were having a conversation, and at one point she threw up her hands and said: “I know I screwed up! But I’m doing the best that I can! Can’t anybody see that?”
Her words hit me like a punch because she expressed exactly what I’ve been feeling for a long time: I AM doing the best that I can. As an imperfect, deeply flawed human being, I am taking the sum of my understanding, experiences, and hopes and trying to be and do the very best that I am able to in nearly every situation I face. I think we all are. Or, at least most of us are.*
So why are we so hard on each other?
It strikes me that we can go through our days assuming the world is out to get us, or we can internalize the truth that it is rarely about us. The people we interact with, the conversations that we have, the less-than-satisfying encounters that leave us wounded and sore, can derail us, or they can lead us into a deeper understanding of ourselves and the world around us. Maybe, if we approach hurt with the optimistic belief that everyone we meet is doing the best that they can, we can be freed up to see their failures and shortcomings as nothing less than all they were capable of on any given day. After all, everyone is fighting a battle you know nothing about.
I have to make a phone call this afternoon to reschedule an appointment. The receptionist on the other end of the line is someone who has been unfailingly rude and dismissive to me in the past, and I’ve been putting off this chore for a week. In past interactions, I’ve been rude back. I’ve been short and unpleasant because that’s how she treats me. But I hope today I have the grace and courage to be kind even in the face of her unkindness. Maybe, she’s doing the best that she can. And though I find her efforts far short of my standards of service and care, I have no idea what her life looks like outside of work. Or how her colleagues treat her. Or what happened to her to make her so miserable.
Of course, she could just be a sour person by nature. But assuming the worst and treating her accordingly doesn’t hurt her nearly as much as it hurts me. She may be unaffected by the way that I address her on a routine phone call, but you’d better believe that if I respond to her with acrimony and spite, it will affect ME. My dad always used to say: “Never wrestle a pig. You both get dirty, but the pig likes it.” Perhaps this is an imperfect parallel, but feeling dirty after “going low” is something I know all too well.
So, I’m doing the best that I can by assuming that everyone else is doing the same.
I forgive you the things that you don’t know or don’t understand. The way that you’ve been raised and how it affects the way you live and move in the world. I can have grace for a bad day, a brief oversight, a wrong turn. I accept that you can’t know what you haven’t been taught. I agree that life is hard and heartbreaking and we are all the walking wounded. And I hope that when I fail at all of these aspirations and more, that you will find it in your heart to forgive me, too.
May we all be learning and changing bit by bit and day by day. May we internalize things now that transform the way we treat other people later. And may we be kind to ourselves and others as we become the people we were always meant to be.
Thanks for reading. xoxo - Nicole
*I absolutely understand that not everyone is doing the best that they can! Some DO intend harm, and by no means am I advocating that you simply assume the best of bad actors and move on. Seek justice in all matters, friends. Involve authorities if necessary. Stand up when you see others being marginalized, hurt, or in any way abused. Today’s post is all about the day-to-day slights we all face, and finding a way forward when we get mired in blame.
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Great column. I agree, it is rarely about us. But it takes some maturity to understand that point.
Nicole, I try to stay in an empathetic zone, but there are times when anger seeps in, and I regret it. When I can make myself climb out my own bucket, I realize most of us are doing the best we can, and often those who are the unkindest among us, have hardships and burdens I can't comprehend. Easier said than done, of course. Thanks for the reminder.