Parent's Corner: The Parent Achievement Trap

When I was in kindergarten, if I did a good job on my worksheet, I got a pumpkin sticker. I loved those pumpkin stickers. I wanted a sticker on everything I did.

Achievement is one the three main sources of motivation according to the psychologist McClelland.* Achievement is the need to do better than you did before, the need to master skills, the desire to be the best you can be. It is a great source of motivation and can be a great strength: it can help you learn things and do things. It can help you persevere when the learning curve is hard. Honestly, it can be pretty addictive. Yes, you start off small with pumpkin stickers as the gateway drug, but pretty soon you are learning languages, mastering scales in music and getting good grades—you are hooked, with each achievement giving you the hit you are looking for. If I were to be really honest, I would have to admit that I am always jonesing for that pumpkin sticker.

But the problem with achievement is that like all strengths—when you overuse them—they kick you in the pants. Your strength—achievement--actually becomes your weakness. Achievement becomes your trap.

Achievement works for a lot of things. But it doesn’t work for everything. It works great for things that are in your control—and for things that you can see, hear or touch. For example, if I want to organize my pantry—I have control over how fast or slow I want to do it—and when it’s done I can stand back and take pride in the accomplishment. I can give myself a pumpkin sticker. But achievement is much more complicated when something has a timeline of its own—like growing vegetables or flowers. I can plan my perennial border based on colors and what will bloom with what in my typical achievement mode, but Mother Nature rarely cooperates with me. This year, due to the temperature and precipitation, the grape hyacinth that were supposed to bloom with the daffodils waited an extra month and bloomed instead with the hardy geraniums. It was still pretty, but not what I had planned. Similarly, when I plant corn, I can do everything I can to support its growth, but it’s going to take between 60-80 days to get an ear of corn. I can’t just work harder, or put in more effort to get it to produce corn in a week.

One trait of humans is that whenever we run in to hardship and what we are doing isn’t working, we don’t stop doing that thing. No, instead we typically do that thing harder. It always makes me think of the times when I was younger and I locked my keys in my car (when you could still do that) and I could see them in there, and see that the locks were down and yet I would pull on the car handles anyway, hoping that maybe this time, when I pulled the door handle the car would open.

And achievement is one of those things that even when it isn’t working anymore, we do it harder, because achievement oriented people believe in hard work and “Hey, it’s always worked for me before, right?!”

My first clinical internship as a therapist was at a residential treatment facility—I would be doing individual, group and family therapy. And I met with my supervisor, Ann, eager (maybe even overeager) to do a great job. But after our first conversation, Ann had some paradoxical advice. She said, “I want you to get a ‘B’ in this internship. I am sure I looked at her like she had 2 heads. It was the first semester of graduate school and I was still trying to get in to the doctoral program. Anything less than an 'A' was out of the question. In fact, had there been a grade higher than an “A”-- I wanted it. Like all achievement oriented people, I had the belief that an “A” was good and meant your life would turn out the way you planned. And anything less than that was bad and meant that you would automatically go from graduate school to being homeless on the Boston Common, pushing a shopping cart and talking to streetlamps. Achievement people have no belief in a middle ground.

But Ann was absolutely right. You actually can’t get an “A” at helping other people. You can’t work harder to make other people grow, or heal, or develop. You can’t do more—because actually—all of the doing belongs to the other person. You can put effort in to creating a good environment for growth and learning, much like you can when you are growing vegetables—but you can’t put your effort into someone else’s growth. It isn't actually about you at all.

This is an incredibly hard lesson, and one you typically refuse to believe at first. Like Robin Williams talking about how he feared that when he stopped using drugs and alcohol, that he would no longer be funny—I feared that if I gave up achievement, my wonderdrug, there was no possibility of success.

Learning this was one of the most important things I came to learn as a therapist. I had compassion, I had hope, I understood the underpinnings of change. But I had to learn the patience of being, the ability to sit and witness another’s growth, struggle, and development—without the ability to be the one doing something. Really, I had to learn to trust in other powers in the world besides my own effort—to trust in the power of growth and development, to trust in the power of relationships and groups and communities, to trust in a power greater than myself.

And in working with parents I have come to see that getting out of the achievement trap is as difficult for many parents as it was for me as a therapist. High achievement parents want to parent well (okay maybe even perfectly), you want your children to be happy and successful, and you want to be able to use your strength—your achievement—to make it all happen.

And it doesn’t work. Because parenting doesn’t lend itself to achievement. In parenting you have to dance with development and personality and whatever happens that day. You have to dance with their decision to wear pink and orange because they are choosing to match the butterflies to the flowers, not the colors to each other. It’s Improv, not Shakespeare in the Park. In parenting you get to create the environment—and you can use your achievement oriented energy to learn about learning or development or attachment. But what will actually create it is letting go. Believing in something bigger than yourself. Believing in something bigger than your kids.

© Gretchen L. Schmelzer, PhD 2015

*The other two are affiliation and power. You can be motivated by affiliation, by being connected to others as a way to get things done as a great team player. Or you can be motivated by power: either personalized (moving up the corporate ladder and gain new titles and influence) or socialized power—gaining influence for a greater good. And probably some mix of the three, with one taking precedence when you are stressed

Rerun: Become Sea Glass--Brave the Waves!

Many years ago in my psychology training I had the idea that as the years went by I would get better at what I did and it would all feel more polished, more perfect, more decisive. I had a picture of me finishing my training all bright and shiny. But what happened was that instead of bright and shiny I became more and more like sea glass.

Sea glass is beautiful. Everyone loves sea glass, and everyone wants to find sea glass, but no one wants to become sea glass. It is worn and shaped by the forces around it. It is beautiful because of what it has endured. The original colors change, but become something even more beautiful. But sea glass is never bright and shiny. It is not perfect glass. In fact, it is broken glass—the furthest thing from perfect.

In my training I had my rough edges worn away from the hours and people and experience. And mostly my mistakes. Hundreds and hundreds of mistakes. Things I should have said and things I shouldn’t have said. Thousands of hours of good intentions and hundreds and hundreds of misses and repairs. Years of training had my heart become softer and my thinking less definitive. It was nothing I could have imagined when I began, and yet as I headed out into my career I was grateful.

Sea glass isn’t like regular glass. It is sturdy. It no longer breaks easily. The only way to become sea glass is to put yourself out into the surf and let yourself get hit by wave after wave. Through all seasons and all storms. You need to get buried by the beach pebbles and rolled around in the stones. You need to get pounded by the surf, and hit by the wind, and scorched by the sun.

I have been thinking about sea glass as I head into my goals for 2015 and with all the discussions of change this past week. So much of what can get accomplished in terms of change or healing or growth is our willingness to put ourselves out into the surf and let the waves crash over us. Healing requires this courage—to keep putting yourself in the space of healing, keep risking the conversation, keep tolerating the emotions, keep learning new behaviors.

And all growth means letting yourself make mistakes. Hundreds and hundreds of them. Letting yourself roll around and crash on the stones. Letting your courage help you wear those rough edges off, help you reveal your deep colors, help you become sturdy.

Beach glass takes time. On the beach in Maine in the summer, when you find a piece of glass that is still shiny, you throw it back in. You give it more time. And thinking about this reminds me that maybe the goals that I have been struggling with are just pieces of glass that need more time. I need to throw those goals back in this year. Let the surf hit them again. Let myself struggle and make mistakes and run up against hard edges—and let those mistakes and hard edges soften me, and help me bring out my beauty. I encourage you to do the same.

This post originally ran on December 30 to inspire change in the New Year. As I head back to Maine, and wrestle with some big changes, I thought I could use the reminder, and that maybe you could too. Brave the Waves!

Parent's Corner: The Letter Your Teenager Can't Write You

Dear Parent:

This is the letter that I wish I could write. 

This fight we are in right now. I need it. I need this fight. I can’t tell you this because I don’t have the language for it and it wouldn’t make sense anyway. But I need this fight. Badly. I need to hate you right now and I need you to survive it. I need you to survive my hating you and you hating me. I need this fight even though I hate it too. It doesn’t matter what this fight is even about: curfew, homework, laundry, my messy room, going out, staying in, leaving, not leaving, boyfriend, girlfriend, no friends, bad friends. It doesn’t matter. I need to fight you on it and I need you to fight me back.

I desperately need you to hold the other end of the rope. To hang on tightly while I thrash on the other end—while I find the handholds and footholds in this new world I feel like I am in. I used to know who I was, who you were, who we were. But right now I don’t. Right now I am looking for my edges and I can sometimes only find them when I am pulling on you. When I push everything I used to know to its edge. Then I feel like I exist and for a minute I can breathe. I know you long for the sweeter kid that I was. I know this because I long for that kid too, and some of that longing is what is so painful for me right now.

I need this fight and I need to see that no matter how bad or big my feelings are—they won’t destroy you or me. I need you to love me even at my worst, even when it looks like I don’t love you. I need you to love yourself and me for the both of us right now. I know it sucks to be disliked and labeled the bad guy. I feel the same way on the inside, but I need you to tolerate it and get other grownups to help you. Because I can’t right now. If you want to get all of your grown up friends together and have a ‘surviving-your-teenager-support-group-rage-fest’ that’s fine with me. Or talk about me behind my back--I don’t care. Just don’t give up on me. Don’t give up on this fight. I need it.

This is the fight that will teach me that my shadow is not bigger than my light. This is the fight that will teach me that bad feelings don’t mean the end of a relationship. This is the fight that will teach me how to listen to myself, even when it might disappoint others. 

And this particular fight will end. Like any storm, it will blow over. And I will forget and you will forget. And then it will come back. And I will need you to hang on to the rope again. I will need this over and over for years.

I know there is nothing inherently satisfying in this job for you. I know I will likely never thank you for it or even acknowledge your side of it. In fact I will probably criticize you for all this hard work. It will seem like nothing you do will be enough. And yet, I am relying entirely on your ability to stay in this fight. No matter how much I argue. No matter how much I sulk. No matter how silent I get.

Please hang on to the other end of the rope. And know that you are doing the most important job that anyone could possibly be doing for me right now.

Love, Your Teenager

What if we believed that shame is actually the compass?

“You know, I once read an interesting book, which said that, uh, most people lost in the wilds, they, they die of shame. Yeah, see, they die of shame. ‘What did I do wrong? How could I have gotten myself into this?’ And so they sit there and they... die.”
— David Mamet

In healing from trauma, shame should be one of the biggest indicators of healing, of being on the right track. When shame hits, we should all feel good—that things are moving, shifting, healing. Like when a wound heals over and it gets itchy because the skin is growing back.

But I have found that we rarely see shame as the harbinger of good news. The sign that we are actually on the right path. When we are lost in our own wilds of healing, we often also risk, as Mamet reports, dying of shame: we hit the places in our healing that are uncomfortable, that feel like a backwards slide, that are vulnerable. These experiences catapult us into shame and we freeze, we stop reaching out, we spiral down and feel more and more lost. Instead of looking up and out and calling for help, we berate ourselves for being “back here again” “feeling this way again.” We say things like “I thought I was done with this.”

Shame is almost always secondary. It is a judgment about where we are. Shame isn’t being lost. It is the feeling we put on our experience of lost. Shame isn’t the feeling of grief or rage or desire. It is the feeling we put on top of those feelings so we don’t have to feel them. People die of shame in the wilds because they can’t stop the judgment about how they got lost. And instead of sitting still and being mindful of where they actually are and where they have been: shame spins them in a circle of where they wish they were. Shame keeps them from finding the way out.

And in healing from trauma it is absolutely no different. This spring I have had a lot of work and travel. And I also took on moving. I anticipated a number of stressors that went with all of this, but didn’t anticipate the healing work it would generate: when you shift every system in your life, things will get unearthed. I think this happens to a lot of trauma survivors: you plan some big changes in your life, good changes, growth changes—and then this growth shifts you enough to heal. What needed to be healed was waiting for exactly this series of changes to happen. But it doesn’t make you feel good, or happy because what needs to be healed makes you feel lost: and then you end up feeling betrayed by your own feelings, “What did I do wrong? How could I have gotten myself into this?” And you risk, as Mamet, says, dying of shame. Or at least, being stuck in the woods forever.

But the thing is--I know the way out. I have been here before. But I never, ever, remember at first. At first I panic and run in circles desperating doing everything I can do NOT to feel whatever it is I am feeling. I rant and complain about what I WANT to be feeling instead of accepting and talking about how I am actually feeling. I run through an entire argument in my head and end up back exactly where I started--only more exhausted and full of despair. 

But there is always a way out. In fact, the only way out of this lost place, and the shame that can come with it is to stop. Look around. Be willing to say exactly where you are. Give that place words. Is it angry? Furious? Desperate? Exhausted? You will know you hit the right words when your body lets go: you cry, you can breathe, you relax. When you slow down and name the place where you actually are -- you are no longer lost. You have been found.

In the forest of healing, shame is almost always a sign that you are standing at the point of rescue. Shame is the sign pointing exactly to what needs to be said –out loud—if possible. Instead of it being the thing that spins us around, shame might actually be the compass. It always seems impossible that you can be found as you are, wherever you are. But really, it is the only place that you can be. I don't know why I can never remember this when I feel lost. When I feel shame. I don't know why I need to learn this lesson over and over again. But I am fairly certain I am not alone in this. So join me. Stop. Breathe. Name where you are—no matter how much you have to fight shame to say it. Name where you are. Create your map. Let yourself be found.

© 2015 Gretchen L Schmelzer, PhD