Don't Buy Them the Cake Pop—At Least Not the Second One.

On Building Resilience

Starbucks cake pops are a total racket. I recognize that they are more labor intensive than I probably appreciate, but at $3.25 for approximately 38 grams of sugar and egg whites, I feel like I am more or less setting my dollars aflame. 

That being said, they are my absolute go-to mom move for getting my FOMO King of a 4-year-old to depart any of the kid-centric locations he begs us to frequent. They're my get-out-of-jail-for-$3.25-card. 

Last week, my kiddo took the glorious bait, as usual, and we settled in by the water feature outside of a Starbucks for him to enjoy his treat and for me to enjoy the peace of not hearing children screaming. But after only one bite, the unthinkable happened: the entire pastry dropped from the stick and rolled across the ground, its gooey exposed center picking up detritus along the way. 

Now, I'm not wildly germophobic, but I have my limits. Upon inspection, the cake pop was properly polluted—there was no coming back. My son watched in abject horror as I deposited his treat into the trash. 

To say he was displeased would be a wild understatement. My only saving grace was the sound of the water feature which somewhat muffled his furious howls. He let me know, in no uncertain terms, that he would not be leaving until I purchased him a new one. 

But my answer was 'no'.

I didn't want it to be 'no'. I didn't enjoy watching his little heart shatter into pieces. But I also knew that I can't fix every disappointing and uncomfortable experience for my kids and still raise them to be resilient. The two are mutually exclusive.

To be fair, it's not to say that I would never say 'yes'. We all have days when we just need a 'win' and kids are no exception. But this day, my mama bear intuition sensed he was ready for it, and we were going to process the loss and seeming unfairness together. 

And I'll be darned if it didn't turn out okay. After some hugs, and synchronized deep breaths, I put him in his car seat to the sound of him cheerfully singing "I love you, mommy!" To be honest the whole thing left me scratching my head a little, and thinking he might have handled his disappointment better than I’ve been handling my own. Parenthood has a way of turning the mirror back on us. 

Resilience and I have had a long and complicated relationship. In the first half of my life, the elements that fell within my circle of responsibility were relatively controllable. Want good grades? Study. Want other kids to like you? Present a pleasing exterior. Thus, my whole understanding of resilience mostly looked like pushing through with smarts and willpower. I grew up in a family where hard work wasn't just expected, it was mandatory. My brothers and I all had our first real work experiences on our dad's job sites participating in unskilled manual labor. It was tedious, physically demanding and peppered frequently with a "​C'mon, let's go!" from my dad if we were caught dragging our feet. I learned pretty early on to push through discomfort and get the job done. It was an invaluable lesson and a strategy that carried me through school very successfully and ultimately into my career. 

But it turns out willpower alone has its limits. The problem with adulthood is that the circle of responsibility expands and, with it, the recognition that most of the things you care about most are actually outside your control.

My first son's birth was traumatic. While he arrived relatively unscathed, I ended up intubated in the ICU. Willpower (and help from others) carried me through my recovery and the first life-upending, sleep-deprived months of his life, but it was all too much and eventually my body and mind gave out. It turns out there is no willing your way out of depression, anxiety and insomnia. It was then that I learned another crucial ingredient to resilience​ (with help from professionals): acceptance. It's not just about putting your head down and fighting your way through but developing a willingness to sit in pain and process it. Often times this looks like allowing your tears to do their magic: expelling stress hormones. 

But there is still more: Connection. With other humans. I know, humans can be the worst... except when they're the best. And when it comes to recovering from heartache, I think it's impossible to do it on your own. Depression cruelly whispers to its host to isolate, but hugs from others release oxytocin and remind our bodies we're safe, and a sympathetic text from a loved one can spike our serotonin. Your proverbial village can literally help your body and brain recover. (Shameless shoutout to all my people!!)

This Substack is called Interrupted Insights for a reason, and in the midst of writing this piece, I received not just one, but a series of personally devastating pieces of information. I’ve been forced—very suddenly—to test my own theory about resilience. (Thanks for nothing, UNIVERSE!)

What are the results of my little experiment? The tears are helping. The hugs and texts (that often make me laugh) are helping. The willpower is helping. But I think I found one more ingredient, and it might be the most important.

Hope. 

You have to hope there will be more proverbial cake pops in your future. You have to hope the next time it won't fall off the stick (or at least that you'll wise up and eat it over a table). Or, better yet, believe there is something altogether better than a cake pop in your future.  

​Life clearly isn't going to take it easy on us or our kids, but maybe if we cry it out, collect our hugs and hope for better, we just might make it out okay. 

Now, "c'mon, let's go!"