The only time I’ve ever felt that I might “lose my mind” was when our son had a near-fatal scooter accident.
He was 24 years old, vibrant, bright-eyed, and in a slippery instant, near death.
As a dad half-a-planet-away I felt an intense need to save him. Just days before, I’d thought that I was “done” parenting. Our twenty-something kids were capable and independent. Now my son was curled-up in pain, his nurse-sister by his side, as I talked with the neurosurgeon over FaceTime.
During the weeks he was in hospital there was part of me that continually told myself that I had to be strong. I did need to be persistent, determined, tireless as I stayed-up much of the night making stressful phone, Skype, and WhatsApp calls.
Yet eventually, all my days of being in full-on dad protector mode, trying to control the situation, to make the right choices, to stay strong, almost broke me.
What saved me—and perhaps in some way our son—was softening.
When I felt I was on the edge of “losing it”, some little inner voice made me aware that I couldn’t control the outcome of the situation, of the surgery, of the way blood, bone and tissue would move and heal.
The event changed me.
I was opened to the truth that the opposite of strength isn’t weakness, it’s softness.
“Softness” evokes lots of negative male associations: “Don’t be a softy”, “You’re a limp dick” “Oh, he’s soft.”
Among the men I admire, the strongest men are those who can also soften. Soften with acceptance. Soften with compassion. Soften with love.
These men don’t see other men as defined by the false dualities of winners and losers, alpha and beta, but by individuality, relationship and seeing myself in the other.
Softness is a power. It enables us to deal with the vagaries of a life—loss, mortality, grief, change, addiction, heartbreak, accidents, illness—all the sh*t, that if you’re lucky to live long enough, can and will happen.
And in the beautiful paradox that is life, it’s softening that will enable you to stay strong.