Don-ations

I kept calling it a gap, but it gave all it was supposed to give

• Donavon • Season 4 • Episode 13

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I’m talking about the gifts and gaps that come from the people who raised us. The things they gave us out of love, and the things we’ve had to work through. I share some of my own stories and what stuck with me, what shaped me, and what I’m still unlearning. This episode is about how those gifts and gaps show up in our lives, and how we learn to carry them.

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Speaker 1:

And maybe that's the thread that runs through all of this. The thing you thought was your damage might have been your development. The gap in your life that you cursed could be the place your wisdom was quietly being built this whole time. What's up? What's up, my friends? Welcome back to donations.

Speaker 1:

It's your host, donovan, and lately I've been noticing how much of my adult life is really just me overthinking small things. Like the world is ending, um, like I'll be halfway through my week arguing with myself over small things like whether to keep the leftovers or whether to cancel my plans or whether to send a text or not, and most of the time it's so pointless. Like just make a decision already. Like who taught me to care this much? And not in a dramatic childhood trauma kind of way. Like who taught me to care this much? But I just mean in in those everyday human moments where the amount of overthinking we do doesn't quite match the size of the situation. Like it's crazy, but of childhood. This episode's kind of about that. It's about the quiet stuff that we absorb from the people who raised us or who were around when we were growing up and the tools they gave us. It's about the tendencies and the little echoes that we learned to carry. Some of those things are beautiful, some not so much, and others fall somewhere in between those. So let's talk about those gifts and those gaps and let's see where they take us.

Speaker 1:

My mom hates waste like big time, like big time. She doesn't like to waste anything, whether it's leftovers or hand-me-downs or trinkets or wrapping paper, whatever it is. If it can be reused, she will find another purpose for it, and I'm not saying that in a bad way at all. It's a good thing. It's a blessing that we have enough to have some leftover, it's a blessing that the next in line doesn't have to go without. And it's a blessing, tbh, to be able to celebrate something that calls for wrapping paper or for a gift bag that can be reused or repurposed. And to be honest, for a little while there I was like mom, it's okay if the dog has some extra scraps. Like it's okay if we throw a gift bag away. It's not the end of the world. But now that I'm older I see it came from somewhere deeper.

Speaker 1:

My mom grew up in a house with five siblings and a whole lot of make-do with what you have, so naturally she adopted this mentality of never wanting to see anything go to waste. And when she became a mom, she made it clear that she never wanted us to feel that she never wanted us to feel like there wasn't enough or that we didn't have what we needed. And, yes, that even expanded towards the Christmas gifts that we swore we needed. And if you ask my dad, he'll say she spoiled us rotten. But I think she was coming from a place that wasn't just parenting us, she was parenting her inner child too. I think she didn't want to see us have to stretch too far or at all for anything.

Speaker 1:

And when you're a kid, sometimes that thinking you need everything you see is the only part that rings out for you. And that was very much me. And that was very much me. I took that never having to go without part and created this echo. That said, if something feels essential to me, whether it be emotionally or materialistically or even relationally, then I must need it. And when that becomes your default lens, when that becomes the lens, you see everything through the lines between want and need really blur. And I know it sounds crazy, but that blurring can create anxiety, like real body level anxiety that doesn't always make sense in the moment, but definitely makes sense to your nervous system, like there's a signal going off.

Speaker 1:

I remember when it used to be New Music Tuesday instead of New Music Friday and that was the day new CDs hit the shelves. And I would spiral, spiral with anxiety if I couldn't get to the store in time before the NSYNC or Britney Spears CDs sold out. I mean full on mission mode, like not just trying to convince my mom or dad to take me, but when they finally did agree to take me, sitting in the car on the way there, already panicking about the possibility of getting there too late and sometimes we were too late, like we'd make the trip but only to find the shelves empty and my world would actually feel like it was ending. And sure, that seems small. Now it's just a cd, like they'll order more than restock and then you can buy it next time, right, and you can hear the songs on the radio until then. But back then it wasn't all about the music for me. There was this narrative underneath those parts and it was saying if you miss it, then you'll never get it, and if you don't have it now, you may never have it at all. And it wasn't just when I wanted to buy something.

Speaker 1:

That sense of panic that I felt later on bled into things like relationships too, like if I thought something was necessary to feel safe and someone couldn't provide that for me, then it felt like a crisis, like the whole relationship was at risk. Because I didn't yet know the importance of being able to provide for myself first before asking someone else to, because I didn't yet know how to tell the difference between emotional needs that help a relationship grow and emotional needs that are really just like trauma reenactments dressed up as non-negotiables. You see, needs based on growth in a relationship have elasticity, there's space for two people in them and there's room for compromise. But when the needs are rooted in something like trauma, they're heavier, they're louder and it feels like they don't leave much room for anyone or anything else. And they say things like here carry this for me, and if you don't, then you don't love me. Carry this for me, and if you don't, then you don't love me.

Speaker 1:

And I really had to learn that the hard way. I really caused myself so much unnecessary hurt that way and thinking that but that's okay, right, because I'm better because of it. But looking back now, tying it all back to that childhood echo of you don't have to go without. I know that's not how my mom intended it all. To play love, it was protection. It was the offering of someone who remembered what lack, or the worry of there being too much of it, felt like, and she wanted better for me.

Speaker 1:

You know, there's something so familiar in the panic that comes from thinking you might not get what you need, whether it's a CD or a kind of validation from a lover. It's like an emotional blueprint that says if I don't have this now, it might be gone forever. And that fear turns want into need and then that need hardens into something more permanent if we're not careful. And before we know it, it's not just about a CD or it's not just about a relationship. It's about how tight we hold on to everything, how much we panic about everything, like I can't let go of this because that would be wasteful, and I can't get rid of these clothes, even if they aren't in style or don't fit me anymore, because that would be throwing out a version of me that I used to love. And I can't do that to myself. And even onto extremes like I can't just walk away from a relationship, even if it stresses me out, even if it's bad for me. That would be throwing away all that time I spent trying to make it work, and time is already limited so I can't just do that.

Speaker 1:

But if something isn't fitting clothes or relationship is it worth holding on to just for the sake of not wasting? Is it worth holding on to just for the sake of not wasting? Even now I have to ask myself am I holding on to whatever it is Because I love it, or because I'm afraid of whatever space it'll leave behind? Or because I'm afraid of thinking my life will be lacking? Am I not more than capable of fulfilling that space or that need on my own? And you know, it's the same with expired dreams, like dreams you had to let go of.

Speaker 1:

I used to keep all of my dreams. I thought if I just waited long enough, if I just wished hard enough and hoped hard enough, all my dreams might come back to life. But now I know that dreams have seasons. Some are meant to be planted, some were never mine to begin with, and letting them go doesn't mean they were a waste. And two letting them go means new dreams can come along.

Speaker 1:

I think it took me forever to realize that, and I know maybe all of that sounds like a leap like from CDs to relationships, to clothes, to dreams, but emotionally they all hit the same nerve the fear that if I let go it'll mean it didn't matter and that the space it leaves behind can never be full again. And that the space it leaves behind can never be full again, that there will always be a need and never enough. But I'm learning that letting go doesn't erase the meaning, it just makes room for more. And maybe, maybe the real gift my mom gave me wasn't just being aware of a need or being aware of when you're being wasteful, it wasn't just never having to go without. What she gave me was the example of someone giving from intention and remembering what it felt like to be in need, a woman who turned her own hunger into our fullness. So I honor her now by recognizing both truths. I come from abundance, but I also inherited the fear of scarcity, and both shaped me, but neither own me. I get to choose now what I need and what I keep, and what I give and what I let go of, not because I'm greedy or wasteful, but because I finally know the difference between keeping and clinging and I have my mom to thank for that.

Speaker 1:

My dad is the most curious person I know. Like that man knows about just about everything. He's always got a did you know? Locked and loaded and a perspective and an angle and a backstory to go along with all of it. I remember the discovery and history channels were always on when he was in charge of the remote and, as annoying as it was not getting to watch something more my style, I couldn't help but catch myself invested in the kind of programs that he'd watch on those channels. I mean, yeah, some were boring, honestly, but every now and then one would end up being interesting and captivating. And when I gave it all the space to unfold, it really caught my attention. And, like I said, my dad watched it all the time. He watched those channels all the time and I really admired that about my dad.

Speaker 1:

He was always learning and he still is, and if he doesn't know something he's the first in line to get the 411 on it and learn the who, what, when, where, why. Behind it, he wants to know. Behind it, he wants to know. There have been like countless times when I've come across some bit of information or learned about something new, because I really inherited that curiosity from him, and the first thing I think of is my dad would appreciate that and I'll take it to him and I'll tell him about it and explain it to him in the way that I learned it right. Except, more times than not, he'll already know about it and he'll already have his perspective and opinion formed on it, and then he'll end up teaching me even more and he'll show me sides of the story that I didn't even know existed. And, of course, the way dads do, he'll turn it into a life lesson about the importance of always being prepared and aware and how to not get caught looking down and how to always get your head out of your ass. And it turns into this never-ending loop of information, and I absolutely love it. Only it comes with an echo of its own. I prefer to have all the information laid out before me, the what to expect, the what's the goal, all the meaning behind something, before I jump into it, whether it's relationships, work, vacation plans or even just weekend hangout plans, I'm always wanting to know what time and where. What are the tools? Do I need gloves? What's the worst case scenario what's plan B? Like my brain needs blueprints, not improv, okay, and it's crazy, funny, ironic, whatever you want to call it, because the curiosity that my dad instilled in me from his own mind doesn't hold him back or stall him the way my mind does.

Speaker 1:

I remember my dad always working on something. The second he'd step foot outside of the house he'd jump straight into anything. He was always building something, making something, digging here or pouring cement there or planning a garden, or tools and drills and screws all within reach, just going for it, and he'd always call us out there to help him. When I was younger, maybe like elementary age, it was come out and hold this board up while I nail it and then you can go back inside. But somewhere around junior high to high school age it was come outside and let's start and finish this whole project. I'm going to need your help.

Speaker 1:

And sure, I was more times than not a little reluctant and kind of looked at it like, well, I have to, because my dad said, but there were some times where I was genuinely all for it, like, ok, let's do it. But I needed details first. I needed all the who, what, where, when, why of the plan so that I knew what steps to take and what was expected of me and what role I would play and essentially what we were setting out to do. What we were setting out to do, oh, and how much effort I was expected to put in and exert. And no, that's not because I was lazy or trying to cut corners, it's because my brain just runs on a cost-benefit analysis on every tiny step before I even stand up. It's called efficiency. I like to think, and sometimes that not standing before I've got it mapped out means I don't move at all. So how efficient is it? Right? But I don't know. Heaven forbid, I start going the wrong direction. Right, like that's what I'm trying to avoid, and I think that's valid. Think of how much time and resources and energy could be expended going the wrong way, when, if you have a clear plan, it can be pointed in the right direction from the jump right, whatever you're trying to execute.

Speaker 1:

I remember one time my dad was having cement poured in the backyard and the only part of the plan that I knew of was that, once it was poured, we meaning me, my nephew, my brother and my uncle would jump in and do the rest. Okay, cool, so I show up, right, well, barely. I had been traveling for work the week before and had literally just gotten home the night before, like late in the night, like late in the night, and ended up sicker than a dog halfway through my trip and had just been feeling like absolute shit. And once I got there, everyone except for me had cement boots. So that was the first thing. But that's okay, just pivot, borrow some when someone isn't using them. Okay, cool, got it. And then the cement gets poured in, right. Well, the thing about cement is, once it's in, you've got to work fast, because that shit will set quicker than I don't know what, but it just sets super quick.

Speaker 1:

Okay, so get the tool and get in there and level it all out. Except how? What's the right technique? Like, what texture am I aiming for? What does level even look like compared to the parts that haven't been leveled yet? I don't know. And why didn't we rehearse this?

Speaker 1:

And I instantly hated all of it, because I knew it looked like I didn't know what I was doing. I mean, I didn't, but I don't like to look like I don't. You know. And I knew that meant I wasn't contributing. Yes, I was moving, but as to which direction I don't even know. I felt blinded, not to mention, my body was literally screaming at me from dealing with a fever and aches, and I remember thinking if I just had a clearer picture of how this was supposed to go, it would be so much easier.

Speaker 1:

But on the other hand, sometimes I think having that curiosity can be scary because it's like the more you know, because it's like the more you know and the more people know you know, the more they'll ask of you or look to you and, knowing my luck, I'll get asked the one question I actually can't answer, or everyone will look. Only when I just so happen to slip up and the whole illusion will crack. And it's like there's sometimes a strange pressure that comes with knowing, like the more you know, the more pressure there is to never mess up. And it starts to feel like you're building a tower of books, and the taller it gets, the more terrified you are that someone's going to knock it over with just that one question that you don't know. And suddenly curiosity then feels like a threat and not a gift. And it wasn't long before I was asked to pass on the cement leveling tool and the boots and move aside. And that move aside felt like such a failure on my part and, as a perfectionist, that stuck with me for a while. I mean, that happened a long time ago and I'm still here talking about it. Long time ago and I'm still here talking about it.

Speaker 1:

But I've learned the world isn't in the business of paving every road for me. There's really no room for perfection. There are no guardrails or no instructions in life. There's more times than not just go, when there's no space for planning. You lace your shoes, you pick a path and just walk, and that's what I think my dad was really trying to teach us Just let it be whatever it is, keep your intentions and face it, knowing you gave your best. That's how you really learn. That's how you really reach your own kind of perfectionism not anyone else's.

Speaker 1:

But to get there, to actually learn that, I had to name the gap. The gift was curiosity. I had to name the gap. The gift was curiosity. The gap was the belief that curiosity had to come with certainty. I formed this belief that if a question was asked, I better have the answer, that if I stepped into something new, I better get it right the first time, and that curiosity only counts if it performs.

Speaker 1:

But now I see it completely different. Curiosity doesn't mean having the whole plan before I begin. It means trusting that what I don't know yet doesn't disqualify me. It invites me. It invites me to show up anyway and to ask anyway, to move anyway. So I don't reject the part of me that needs clarity. I just don't wait for the cement to dry before I start shaping something. I let the unknown be part of the work, and maybe that's what my dad really passed down, not just the curiosity to want more, to learn more, but the courage to try without a script, that belief that we bring the meaning, not the map, the preparation. It's already in us, we carry it in our bones. That's the real inheritance, that's the version I keep.

Speaker 1:

You know, the idea of exploring the gifts and gaps in my life came from listening to a Jay Shetty podcast and through this process I realize even more now than before that I love myself, not like in a bumper sticker kind of way, but in a more grounded, real, daily, ordinary, extraordinary kind of way. I used to need the world to hand me evidence that I was lovable. To hand me evidence that I was lovable. I needed the planning and the knowledge and more than enough of it to make sure I got applause, reactions and praise. But now I get to decide.

Speaker 1:

Like I see me, I spent too long trying to earn love by being the version of myself that made people proud, and while there's really nothing wrong with that, to an extent, I still spent an even longer time trying to earn love by not being myself and being what everyone around me needed. By not being myself and being what everyone around me needed, always scanning for that flicker of approval in someone's eyes, and it became this loop until I broke it, until I finally gathered myself and learned to celebrate my quiet triumphs. I learned how to root for myself and how to cheer from the inside out and to validate and love me first. All of that opened the door to me finally allowing myself to be myself, the door to me finally allowing myself to be myself. And maybe that wasn't even a gap my parents left. Maybe it was one I made while trying to earn something that was always mine. Either way, it's full now and I wouldn't trade it for anything, and I wouldn't trade it for anything.

Speaker 1:

No, I've started to see the ways I give my own gifts and gaps too. Like I'll send someone a song, right, like carefully chosen, emotionally coded, and I'll just get hit with a cool or nice. Or I'll write a card with layers of meanings and they'll read it like it's just a grocery list. I can just imagine my family or friends opening a birthday card for me and knowing to expect the whole essay and I'll share a thought or a story or something vulnerable. And when it doesn't land the way I hoped, I can't lie. It makes me shut down a little bit Because those things are not just a gesture to me. All of those things are not just gestures to me. It's really the roadmap to my emotional being, I guess. And when it's dismissed, even unintentionally, it stings and it makes me feel like I was dismissed. But when I see it land, like when I see a song or a birthday card or a story be fully digested and maybe even passed on, that gift circles back to me and it suddenly feels like it was always meant to be shared, be shared. But whether it's digested and circled back or not, all gifts, even the ones that go unopened or misunderstood or misused, are still acts of love. They and simply just trying, and maybe that's the thread that runs through all of this.

Speaker 1:

The thing you thought was your damage might have been your development. The gap in your life that you cursed could be the place your wisdom was quietly being built this whole time. Yes, you can trace it all back to the way you were protected against lack or to the way you were thrown headfirst into the unknown. But it doesn't stop there. Because you weren't handed a script, you were handed raw material, and it's what you build with them that becomes your life.

Speaker 1:

These gifts and gaps. They're not locked in categories and they're not just stamped good or bad. They're just ingredients. They can hurt you or help you, depending on how you hold them. Nothing, no part of it from your story is wasted Not the misunderstandings, not the anxiety, not even the fear. Let's base this week's journal prompt off of that. What have I been calling damage? That might actually be development. So gather yourself your tools, your ingredients, your materials and build something. Start shaping and naming and owning what you once disowned. You've got your human experience in your hands, and it doesn't have to be perfect, it doesn't have to be clear, it just has to be yours. Make it the version you choose to keep Until the next one, be careful, thank you.