I’ve never pretended to be stronger than I am, so I’m sure as hell not going to pretend I’m weaker than I am. I’m also going to quit requiring modesty from other women. I don’t want to find comfort in the weakness and pain of other women. I want to find inspiration in the joy and success of other women. Because that makes me happier, and because if we keep disliking and tearing down strong women instead of loving them, supporting them, and voting for them, we won’t have any strong women left.
When I see a joyful, confident woman moving through the world with swagger, I’m going to forgive myself for my first reaction because it’s not my fault, it’s just my conditioning.
First reaction: Who the hell does she think she is?
Second reaction: She knows she’s a goddamn cheetah. Halle-fucking-lujah.
I’ve always judged harshly my parenting generation’s obsession with their kids’ sports. I’ve pitied the parents who spend their weekends and paychecks carting their kids all over the country to watch them kick balls or do handsprings. Each time a friend tells me about the scholarship her kid got to college, I say, “That’s wonderful!” and I think: But didn’t you spend at least that much on leotards and shin guards and hotels? For a very long while, my athletic goal for my children was mediocrity. I wanted them to learn enough about sports to avoid embarrassing themselves in gym class but not enough to become talented and ruin my weekends.
When the girls were young, they wanted to try gymnastics, so we drove to the local gym once a week and they rolled around and pointed their toes while I read and periodically looked up to yell, “Nice, honey!” This was a perfect scenario until the coach approached me after practice and said, “Your girls show real promise. It’s time for them to start coming three times a week.” I looked at her, smiled, thanked her, and thought: Time for a new sport! The following week, we joined the soccer house league. The girls had fun, and since there was zero pressure or real learning, I felt confident that we could continue to meet our mediocrity goal.
After the divorce, Tish began to fade. I watched her slowly retreat into food for comfort and spend more and more time alone in her room. I knew she needed to move her body more, but I also know, from personal experience, that suggesting this to a child will backfire. Tish was ten. I was ten when I fell into bulimia. My baby looked like she was teetering—right on the edge of falling. I was afraid.
I sat on the couch with Abby one night and said, “I think we need to get her back into therapy.”
Abby said, “I disagree. I think she needs to get out of her head, not deeper into it. I’ve been thinking about this a lot. I want Tish to try out for an elite travel soccer team.”
ME: I’m sorry. What did you just say? Have you met Tish? That child would not run if the house were on fire. And those travel girls have been playing since birth. No, thank you. We are trying to help her, not humiliate her.
ABBY: I’ve got a hunch here. She’s a natural leader. She gets this spark in her eye when we talk about soccer. I think she might love it.
ME: No chance. She’s way too fragile right now. What if she doesn’t make it and it breaks her?
ABBY: What if she makes it and it makes her?
Behind my back, Abby called Craig, a lifelong soccer player, and it quickly became two against one. The plan was to approach Tish and ask if she’d like to try out for an elite travel soccer team against my will and better mama judgment. One day after school all three of us sat Tish down.
She froze and looked warily at us. After a divorce, kids are in fight-or-flight mode for a long while. She asked, “What happened? More bad news?”
Craig said, “No. No more bad news. We’re wondering if you’d be interested in trying out for a travel soccer team.”
Tish giggled. We didn’t giggle with her, so she stopped. She looked at Craig, then me. Then her eyes locked on Abby.
TISH: Wait. Are you serious?
ABBY: Yes.
TISH: Do you think I could actually make it?
I opened my mouth to say, “Well, honey, the truth is that these girls have been playing much longer than you have and don’t forget that just trying out is so brave and we will not focus on outcome, just our input…”
But before I could speak Abby looked Tish dead in the eyes and said, “Yes. I believe you could make it. You have potential and passion. Somebody’s got to make it. Why not you?”
Oh my God, I thought. She is reckless. She has no fucking idea what she is doing.
Without taking her eyes off Abby, Tish said, “Okay. I’ll try.”
“Awesome,” Craig said.
“Cool,” Abby said.
DANGER AHEAD, I thought.
We three smiled at Tish.
Tryouts were four weeks away. Tish, Abby, and Craig spent those weeks at the elementary school practicing shooting and in our living room watching old Women’s National Team games. Abby and Craig traded texts and emails about training strategy. Tish and Abby talked about the game so incessantly that Soccer became the official second language of our home. They also went for runs together each day, which never went smoothly. Tish complained and cried the whole way through. One afternoon they walked into the foyer together, sweating and panting. Tish continued her run right up the stairs, stomping the entire way. Before she slammed the door to her room she screamed, “I CAN’T DO IT! I HATE IT! I CAN’T DO THIS!”
I froze and began to consider what medications we might prescribe Tish after this dangerous experiment failed and we had officially ruined her life. Again.
Abby turned me toward her and looked into my eyes. “It’s fine,” she said. She pointed upstairs. “That? That’s exactly right. Don’t go up there. She’ll be down in a bit.”
Tish came downstairs in a bit, red-eyed and quiet. She sat on the couch between Abby and me. We watched TV for a while, and during a commercial break Abby said, without taking her eyes off the TV, “I hated running every single day of my career. I cried about it all the time. I did it because I knew I couldn’t be great if I wasn’t fit, but I freaking hated every minute of it.”
Tish nodded and asked, “When are we running tomorrow?”
The weeks pass, and now we are driving Tish to her first day of tryouts. I have both my hands wrapped around a gigantic travel mug filled with stress-relief tea. When we arrive at the fields, all the other girls are in their shiny travel uniforms and Tish is in a summer camp T-shirt and PE shorts. She is also at least a foot shorter than all of the other girls. When I point this out to Abby, she says, “What? No, she’s not. Babe, when it comes to Tish, you’ve got some kind of projected body dysmorphia. Look closely, she’s as tall as the rest of them.” I squint and say, “Hm. Well she’s littler inside.” Abby says, “No, she’s not, Glennon. No. She’s not.”
Tish, Abby, Craig, and I huddle up. Tish looks at me, and her eyes are watery. I hold my breath. Abby looks at me and widens her eyes. I want to say, “Baby, let’s forget about all of this. Mommy’s got you. Let’s get back in that car and go get some ice cream.” Instead I say, “I believe in you, Tish. This is a hard thing to do. We can do hard things.”