the Empathy List #126: Giving Up the Need to Be Right
the Empathy List #126: Giving Up the Need to Be Right
Why does it feel impossible to disagree and stay friends? (Plus: how my work as a birth doula taught me to give up "my way.")
Hello friend, Liz here.
When’s the last time you disagreed with someone? In person? And proceeded to have a calm conversation in which you both expressed your viewpoints and both felt heard? And then stayed friends afterwards?
I realize the enormity of each of those questions because, yes, I too waste time on social media, where arguments abound… ;-)
I have spent a lot of time puzzling about these questions over the past few years—not only because of the insanity of American politics (holy hell), but also because I have lived through many church disagreements, Bible disagreements, schooling disagreements, and even fashion disagreements with my almost 12-y-o daughter (in which I ask her to wear ANY OTHER piece of clothing besides clothes dedicated to working out and/or trimming the lawn… This is my way of announcing that we’ve entered the pre-teen years).
And this question came up again after my last essay exploring how to love our fat neighbors. My friend and colleague,
, asked me to expound more practically on how to practice loving those we are likely to judge harshly (including ourselves). She wrote:“Just finished your latest on fat neighbors - lots of great points. Are you going to do more on this topic? Like a ‘Now what?’ post with steps for moving forward, esp. with [those whom]… it's so easy to judge harshly? What you said about being harsh towards yourself is so true. How do I shift? I'd love more tips on reframing [my judgments toward myself] and also towards others.”
As soon as I finished her email, I remembered the years when I worked as a birth doula. (Below, I’ve linked to a few other essays where I’ve referred to my doula work.)
And by the way, I promise this relates to the question at hand, but it’ll be a long walk to get to the directly relevant take-away, so bear with me. ;-)
Being a birth doula changed me. (How could it not?) I learned to give up “my way” in favor of someone else’s way. And that happened through the ordinary process of making space for somebody else’s preferences, desires, and space.
But before I get into that, it might help some of you to glimpse what being a birth doula looks like.
Before baby’s arrival: I spent months in communication with the soon-to-be parents, both IRL and over text. (Note: I use some gender normative language to describe my experience as a birth doula, which is not because I am making a statement about birthing, but rather because my experience with clients was 100% with gender normative couples. Read this footnote for more…1)
I spent evenings with clients in their homes providing education and much discussion of roles.
After baby’s arrival: I again met with clients in their homes to discuss their birth story and their postpartum experience thus far.
And then, of course, there was the birth itself. The birth itself tended to be loooong because most of my clients were first-time parents, and the first time you give birth tends to be the longest. In fact, the longest birth I ever attended stretched beyond 24 hours of care (oof!), though they generally clocked in at 12-16 hours.
During labor, my job was service. That meant, if a laboring mother wanted me to press on one spot on her back for an hour straight, then I tried to do it, no matter how uncomfortable or taxing (usually her partner and I would trade off). If a laboring mother suddenly asked me to leave, offended by me in a way I (or she) did not understand, then I left without any questions, sitting outside the room until she or her partner asked me to return. Whether a laboring mother refused my help entirely or needed me nearby so desperately that I couldn’t leave even for a bathroom break, I did my best to be what she and her partner needed.
If I ever felt angry, uncomfortable, exhausted, or overwhelmed during our journey together, welp, those were emotions I needed to keep to myself. (I did do my best to model for all supporters involved that our physical needs mattered—I ate small snacks regularly and visited the restroom as needed, albeit quickly. ;) Obviously, I did not sleep; I did, however, encourage supporters/partners to sleep, take a walk, or visit the cafeteria so they could return with renewed helping energy.)
When we finally reached the very end of the journey, my role meant that, rather than moving toward the baby as I was tempted to do (especially if I’d been holding mom’s hand the whole time as she pushed!), I moved backwards. I sat or stood in the corners and hallways of the room to offer the laboring mom, her partner, and other family members an intimate moment with their new child… without me. Ultimately, I did not need to be in photos, I did not need to bond with the new infant, and my role had essentially finished the moment baby arrived.
My presence with the family was never the point. My role—the entire point of my presence in the room—was to recede. To make space for the mom and her partner to become parents. To soften their journey toward that new life. And to make space for baby to make them into a family… without making myself an integral part of that family.
My role was to be there and then to walk away, no matter how invested I felt in these people or the outcome— because my presence would inhibit them developing into their own roles within their family.
Yet my strength for embracing that recessive role was tested the most when my clients made choices I disagreed with.
I have strong opinions about childbirth—as do most people who choose to work in this field. Birth doulas, in particular, tend to be hippie, anti-institutionalists who would always prefer a birth to be allowed to run its natural course. (At least the doulas I’ve known! I am obviously generalizing.)
Personally, I trust that female bodies are capable of birthing without the help of drugs, medical interventions, or even doctors. Amongst the doulas I knew, we shared the view that our role was to support that natural, non-medical and non-emergent process. That meant a doula’s bent was to increase a birthing woman’s autonomy so as to enhance her trust in herself as a woman and a mother.
(THIS IS NOT TO SAY THAT WOMEN/PEOPLE WHO DO NOT GIVE BIRTH ARE ANY LESS WORTHY THAN THOSE WHO DO/HAVE GIVEN BIRTH. I only want to explain that these observations led me to this particular perspective on birth and mothering, as well as into the birth doula profession.)
The research shows that the decisions a birthing woman makes can affect how she bonds with her child and whether she views herself as “ready” to become her child’s mother. (Traumatic births are more about a lack of agency than any particular health outcome.) Which is to say, childbirth can prepare a woman to be a strong and capable mother. Childbirth can be the rite of passage between one life and another.
In my own births, I chose zero interventions—and by zero, I mean ZERO. I birthed both of my children in an inflatable tub in my living room surrounded by midwives who watched from outside the tub while I delivered my child into my husband’s hands. (Actually, during birth #2, I delivered my son myself into my own hands!) The only drugs that entered my body happened after the birth (RhoGAM and a shot of pitocin to the thigh to help my uterus contract). I had no pain medication whatsoever, though I wished for plenty during birth #1 as I endured the second stage of labor. (My sweet midwife just laughed at me when I asked to go to the hospital for an epidural. I was annoyed, but as she said, it was too damn late.)
So, I’m sure you can imagine how, when later doula clients told me that they wanted epidurals WITH ALL THEIR HEARTS, I felt the urge to help them pick another (better?) path. After all, I wanted to say, the pain in our teacher! The pain is helping our baby arrive! The pain isn’t bad, only natural! I lived through it and so can you!
… … …
Listen, I’m a bossy older sibling, so I always think I know best. Plus, being a codependent, I believe I’m taking charge for your own sake. (You can thank me later.)
Yet as I’ve mentioned, the point of my role as a birth doula was not to make a birth go my way. My presence was meant to usher a family, and particularly a mother, into her own autonomy. I encouraged her to use her own voice, to follow her intuition, to walk into her own power as the leader and guardian of her kiddo.
In that context, what I believed, thought, and had experienced in my own life and body mattered less than honoring her beliefs, thoughts, and experiences.
Believe me, there were times during labor when I could see a health outcome looming if a client picked this instead of that. I feared what picking the wrong choice would mean for a client. I feared for them because I cared about them and their family. I wanted to save them from regret and longterm pain, physically and psychologically—or at least what I determined would result in regret and pain. (Need I tell you that my prediction did not always come to pass… because I cannot read the future?)
Yet I often had to weigh the importance of me voicing my opinion against the importance of the family coming to their own conclusion. I had to learn not to put a finger on the scale. And during many births, I had to consciously relinquish control and give up my own voice.
Don’t get me wrong, I offered information and education freely, and I encouraged them to ask questions of their providers. But I learned that if a client asked me for advice, the best response was to reverse the question, asking her, well, what do you think?
In the end it was more important that she connect with her own wisdom than that I dispense mine.
Now, returning to the idea of judgmentalism and disagreement in our close relationships, I want to ask us a few questions. When we notice ourselves agitated by the way someone else acts or thinks, it’s worth asking ourselves whether our reaction has to do more with us than with them.
Why is being “right” or winning the argument important? Why is it important to not be “wrong” and to not lose the argument?
Why do we feel responsible for changing someone’s mind, body, behavior, or beliefs? What would it say about us (or them) if we did change their minds? What would it say about us (or them) if we did not change their minds? What would it mean if we changed our minds instead?
Also, what do we hope to gain in the argument? How might the argument hurt or heal a relationship? (Because conflict can both hurt and heal relationships.)
What is (realistically) in our control when it comes to this particular agreement/ disagreement? What is in our control related to the party with whom we disagree?
When I ask myself these questions about my doula work, I realize that I wanted to control others’ births because I wanted them to have the same transformative, connected experience that I’d had during my own labor and deliveries. My motives were good. But if I had pushed my agenda/experience/beliefs onto my clients, not only would I have hurt my relationships with these families, I would also be failing them in my fundamental purpose—to encourage them to practice their agency.
More broadly, conflict is a part of healthy human relationships. There are no communities devoid of disagreement. (And if disagreement isn’t happening in a relationship, then someone isn’t being honest.) Disagreement even happens between believers and their God. We are all the prophet Jonah, jumping overboard into frothy waters, to escape the “wonderful plan God has for our lives.”
Yet how we respond to disagreement reveals much about us. Do we seek to ignore or silence the opposing party by talking over them? Do we pause, listen, and empathize with their perspective or obsess over their wrongness (or our own rightness)? Do we seek a compromise or do we demand our own way?
Choosing to hear someone out when you strongly disagree requires a level of patience and humility that just isn’t rewarded on social media. Even harder is learning to accept the individual identity (the individuation) of another person. Someone we love may truly have an opposite belief or way of life than we do—and whether we like it or not, it’s not our job to change them to be/think/act just like us.
So then, how do we maintain these relationships across differences of opinion, lifestyle, and beliefs? Well, we must build trust. When we focus on building trust, the relational attention shifts from, how can I convince this person to be just like me? to can I trust them? And can they trust me?
Once we trust them—really trust them—then we may find ourselves asking entirely different questions. We may ask, what can I learn from them? What am I missing if I see things so differently than this person that I love and trust? And how can I be better at loving and accepting who they are today, right now, even across difference?
Sometimes the best way to demonstrate trust, respect, and love is to hold our tongues. To listen. To ask for the chance to express ourselves and be listened to. And then to let go of what you cannot change in the other person. (This is also the best metric to judge if somebody else is emotionally trustworthy—do they listen before they speak? Do they seek to learn our priorities before making demands of us?) Ultimately, the only job we’re called to as Christians in this world is love. And we demonstrate our love for each other by our patient, trustworthy presence.
This is another way of saying, respect the boundaries of each person’s individual self. We are not the same people, so we won’t see things the same, even about arenas in which we want the rules to be drawn in thick, immovable sharpie lines.
If you want to have a functional relationship with another human, the way forward is to show you trust them by releasing your need to be right. They do not need to be/think/act just like you to be whole and worthy. There is room for the whole diversity of us in God’s heaven, whether we like it or not.
You really can let the other party be wrong. (Just like they can let you be wrong. ;-)) You’ll live, I promise. …And you might even be surprised by what you discover on the other side of the sharpie line.
Warmly, Liz Charlotte Grant
Your turn: how do you seek to be trustworthy and how do you determine whether someone else is trustworthy? Which of the questions above stands out to you as one you’ll need to spend time mulling over? Can you think of a particular relationship in which you need to practice listening better?
Here are a few other reflections from my days of being a birth doula…
Note: I do my best to dignify the experiences of queer and nonbinary folks in my language in this newsletter. However, the clients I served during my time of working as a birth doula was only with heteronormative couples, and usually a husband and wife. There were many reasons for that, including that I used to be more conservative in my theology so would have felt uncertain serving that demographic of birthing couples and the fact that those particular clients, in my experience, seemed to feel more comfortable going through the pregnancy, birth, and postpartum processes with doulas who identified more directly with the queer community. Today, if I were still a practicing doula, I would be much more open and eager to serve queer couples who wished to walk through the reproductive process with me—because there’s no bad way to grow a family. And every single act of love that makes space in a loving home for a beloved child is an act of grace that mirrors God’s love for us, God’s diverse kids, within God’s diverse family.
All that to say, for the purposes of accuracy to my own experience as a working doula, I will refer to clients using gender normative language because these were the specific clients that I specifically served. By using gender conforming language, I am not making a statement against persons who birth who do not identify as women and/or mothers; I am only trying to speak accurately about my individual working experience as a doula.