Lisa Belkin at the Huffington Post did a wonderful story on me, my family and my Care Map on Friday. So many good things are coming out of it: new friends, new thought partners, new mentors, new opportunities. In some ways, the impact is easiest to capture in the stats: 9,000 visits to the blog, 4,000 Facebook likes, 1500 Facebook shares, 300 email shares. Impressive, unexpected, energizing. These numbers are connections, and it’s in our connection, in our community, that our message for inclusion and celebration of all people grows and thrives.
One unexpected consequence of the article was the public comments it would generate. Most of them were wonderfully supportive. Some were hurtful though, suggesting all sorts of things: that my son should never been born, that our society is harmed for having him among us, that we should stop investing anything in him, that I should stop whining. Even that my daughter’s name is dumb. I know, I know, the internet does strange things to people, making them feel invisible and invincible, free and even obligated to say whatever comes to mind. But ouch. It really hurt.
It hurt so much in fact that my first impulse was to label them as Jerks, to dismiss not just their opinions but their souls. To not only disregard them, but to wish them ill. Then it was to disengage–to stop reading the comments altogether (even the good ones, sadly) because I knew nothing good would come of it for me. Reading and responding would only perpetuate the toxicity of it all.
Author and visionary Oriah Mountain Dreamer once wrote: “Show me how you turn away from making another wrong without abandoning yourself when you are hurt and afraid of being unloved.”
It’s easy to consider another person a jerk when they hurt you. No one would blame you. And in this wonderful work of parenting a child with special needs, there are lots of opportunities to turn your hurt into hate. The problem is that it doesn’t change them, and it doesn’t change the world. The only way it changes you, if at all, is to make you smaller.
Thank you NLark for reminding me that even when I don’t love the messages, I can still love the messengers.