I spent a lot of years wanting my father to be proud of me.
I wanted him to see me. Really see me. I wanted him to understand who I was, the choices I had made, the life I had created, and even some of the ways his choices had shaped me.
Somewhere inside me, I knew I was waiting for that moment when he would finally get it.
Maybe you know that kind of waiting.
Maybe there is someone you wish would finally understand what happened between you. Maybe you wonder whether they think about you, whether they miss you, whether they see the part they played, whether they understand how deeply something affected you.
I hear these questions all the time in my work. What does he think about me? Is she going to come back? Does he realize what he did? Is this going to work out?
Different words. Same question underneath.
Do I matter? Did I matter to them? Will they ever see what I felt? Will something happen that finally lets me feel some relief?
I understand that place because I have stood there too.
I have seen it as an image.
A person standing with one hand held out.
Waiting for someone else to put something in it.
The apology. The recognition. The love. The money. The opportunity. The answer. The thing that will finally let life begin to feel different.
There is something about that image that gets me because I can feel what it is like to stand that way.
Your attention goes toward whatever you are waiting for. You watch for it. You wonder when it will arrive. You look for signs that it is getting closer. You imagine how you will feel when it finally happens.
And meanwhile, there you are, still holding out your hand.
I have done this with people. I have done it with money. I have done it with circumstances in my life.
When this happens, I can do that.
When the money comes, I can go.
When I know how this is going to work out, I can relax.
When someone finally sees me, something inside me can settle.
It is such a human thing to do.
We want relief. We want love. We want freedom. We want to feel seen. We want some sign from life that says, yes, you can move now.
And this is where I have come to believe our wounds need our friendship.
Because the part of us waiting has something to say.
When I sat with the part of me that wanted my father to be proud of me, I could feel the ache in her. She wanted to be seen by him. She wanted her life to matter to him. She wanted him to understand her.
I sat with that. I felt it. I listened to it. And something changed.
The focus began to come back toward me.
Instead of asking when he would see me, I started asking myself, Susan, do you see yourself? Do you see what you have lived, the woman you became? Can you stand beside her? Can you be proud of her?
Those questions felt different in my body. I could feel my hand coming back toward me.
And this is where our power lives.
Power, to me, feels much quieter than commanding life to give us what we want. It feels like relationship — bringing myself into the conversation, listening to what I feel, tending the places that hurt. I recognize what I desire. I make a choice, I take a step, and I stay available to what life brings next.
I participate.
This is what changes when we stop living from the posture of waiting. We begin to befriend ourselves.
We begin to ask ourselves what we have been expecting another person, another amount of money, another opportunity, another moment in the future to give us.
And then we get very close to ourselves.
If I believe money will give me freedom, what does freedom mean to me? If I want someone to see me, what part of me is asking to be witnessed?
If I am waiting to be chosen, what would it feel like to choose myself in the life I am living today? If I am waiting for an apology, what does the wounded place in me want me to understand?
This is where something begins to move.
Because life is already happening while we are waiting. We are already here. We already have a relationship with ourselves, choices available to us, and the ability to meet the part of ourselves that has been standing there with her hand out, hoping someone will finally place the missing piece in it.
You can picture her. You can feel her. And instead of watching the horizon with her, you sit down beside her.
You ask what she has been waiting for.
You listen long enough to hear the real answer.
And then you take her hand.
Because the shift begins there.
We stop waiting for life to tell us when it is our turn.
If you are waiting for someone to see you — what part of you is asking to be witnessed?
With love and blessings,
Susan