Answering a Battle Cry Doesn't Always Heal the Battle Scar

Our 6-year-old is becoming stronger; her skate ramps are getting higher, which means her falls are getting harder. She's had two scary falls recently, both of which I'm both sad and glad I wasn't there for. Obviously, I wish I was there to run to her, knowing it hurt and she wanted a hug from her mama. However, all mamas know the cry they have with mama is different than the cry they have in front of a coach or a teacher, even a little different than with dada. They know we don't just hear their cry; we absorb their cry. We take in the pain and wound like an actual band-aid. We are the gauze that protects it and the medicine that fixes it. The car keys that can bring them home when they want to go home. Their favorite snack swimming at the bottom of our bag when they need it... which is right next to a loose kitty band-aid and an iPhone with access to cat videos, which makes all pain go away. The ultimate first aid kit when things go wrong. So yes, I wanted to be there. I also fully realize not being there helps her tap into tenacity, an emotional resourcefulness, and ability to self-soothe. No loose magic remedies at the bottom of my bag could give her that.

The first fall was during spring break, day 4 of her 5 day skateboarding camp. She was going down the big ramp, obsessing over a trick called a backside kickturn which is going down one end of the ramp and when you get to the opposite side, on the lip of the ramp, you reverse the direction of the board. So now the back foot is leading going back down. Her weight was too far back on the board, any slight back lean or hesitation going down a ramp is a recipe for a wipe out. Her feet and the board flew forward while her head and tail bone swung back on the floor of the ramp. This is a very standard fall on a skate ramp except the other thing that flew forward was her helmet. My worst nightmare happened. Her pink kitty helmet, even though it was fastened under her neck it was too big around her head so it flew forward covering her face like an umpire, while the back of her head was exposed coming down onto the ramp. LUCKILY she passed all the concussion tests and she was okay. There was no mom with her magic first aid kit, but there was an ice pack and friends giving her a lot of nurturing attention around her. After an hour of resting on the sidelines, she was back on the ramp with a spare tighter helmet.

If I was there I'm pretty sure I'd be in a panic, she would be happy to be hugging me but she'd also feel my panic. She might not feel okay enough to stay and would have come home. She might not have been as fast to get back on the board and made it to her last day of camp. Which meant she might not have competed in her final showcase, where she was awarded "the best back side kick turns" of the group. It would have been a very different experience.

The latest fall was from the bike, not a big deal but now that she rides with gears and is so much stronger, her speeds are FAST. So when she hits the ground what used to be small road burns are open gashes. Dada was with her for that. Once again she is okay. We still have dramatic wound cleans when we need to switch out the bandaid, and an inconsistent limp when she remembers she has this injury.

I find lately I'm being tested with other cries after falling, not just as a mom with Noemie's falls, but with neighbors and friends and their falls. This is not the type of fall that a kitty band-aid and tighter helmet can help. These are pretty big mental health issues. Similar to how a child's skate ramp gets higher and their bike goes faster as they grow older, so do the stakes for grown adults. When an adult falls, it's from a much higher place, so they have a much harder fall. When an adult with mental illness falls, it's like falling with a loose kitty helmet. That proverbial protective dome is much more vulnerable.

These friends and neighbors, for the most part, have been keeping it together, at least from what I can see above the surface. We all know mental health issues are like a duck trying to stay afloat; their feet are clawing and working overtime below the water's surface, way harder than your average duck, to seem calm and normal above the water. So they have been managing and have felt safe to help—and even delightful to have around.

My husband and I have helped them here and there with small stuff like getting them into their apartment when they were locked out, inviting them to social gatherings around loving friends that won't judge them, helping them find work, listening to them when they go over their long list of fallouts with other friends and family, and giving gentle advice on how to be self-reflective. Lately, though, it seems the current of water has gotten stronger than their paddle. Whatever they've done in the past to keep their helmets tight has loosened. So the smaller favors of helping them get into their home are now "I don't have a home. Can I stay at yours?" These small fallouts are now "these people are out to get me," they think they are being framed. They are on the ground cutting newspaper articles like Mel Gibson in Conspiracy Theory.

Taking their meds will only numb them from the truth. On the other end of the line of these VERY long phone calls, even though I want to talk sense into them, I realize this is all VERY real for them. Logic and sense aren't even home.

Even though I'm not their mama, I realize they still see me as someone who can fix it. So when they start to spiral, I'm usually one of the first calls. Again, I feel both touched that they see me in this way but also so sad. It's the hardest thing to hear a cry from someone in this state, whom you really care about, and not be able to help them. Knowing the type of help they want from me will only make it worse, enabling the problem so those dark waters and strong currents under the surface last longer. I've tried giving a little, but it's like breaking off the arm of a fire hydrant instead of a small twist of a faucet. There is no option to turn off; they keep coming back for more.

It's so hard. Being an efficient first aid kit when something goes wrong sometimes means doing nothing at all. I've been really feeling guilty about putting up these boundaries lately. The "what if" scenario if I don't help them has a scary ending. Then, just one glance at my daughter, and all of a sudden that boundary feels a lot easier. Not just because this little face is the most important thing to me, protecting her and focusing on what's best for her. She's also a reminder of all the ways we put up boundaries for her and how it has made her such a strong, resilient girl. None of those falls without mom has made her lose trust in mom, not one bit. It has strengthened her trust in herself. In short, she is growing up to be quite a badass. In fact, last night, she was trying to convince me to build her a "Wall of Battle Scars." She wants me to save ALL her band-aids from her wounds and "frame them"—yucky gauze face up! Display them on a wall and put the year it happened underneath them, yes, like an art gallery.

This week let's continue to do the things that keep us both mentally and physically afloat. Putting up boundaries on the things that keep us from focusing on what's important to us. Keeping our helmets tight and one step ahead of our happiness and health. Being proactive about your better balanced routine instead of letting an unhealthy pattern take control of you. The walls that we build don't necessarily deny or block, but create a stronger flow of output. Better designed irrigation, so the love and energy you give is stronger and more effective.

In Noemie's case you could also build a literal wall, "Wall of Battle Scars." To remind you how strong you are, your boo boos do not define you. Show how the healing from those falls is what defines us. Displayed proudly, gauze face up.

Excited to make your bodies sweat, smile, 

and make sure your helmets are secure.

XO,

Celeste

4.18.25 Skateboard Pads on wooden floor. Titled: Velcro Vortex