Source: Julie Amble / 2008
When my oldest daughter Kate was 7 years old (now 23), she was struck in the face at close range by a ball during a youth soccer game. As though something smacked me, I immediately winced as a rush of intense pain surged through my face and body. I raced onto the field, raised her into my arms, held her cheek against mine, and whispered, “You are OK; I am here with you; everything will be OK, Kate.”
My response was reflexive, automatic, and immediate. Unaware of any conscious thought of what I should do or say, I reacted intuitively and instinctively. As Kate labored to catch her breath and tears rolled down her tender red face, I carried her to the sidelines, and the game resumed. We collapsed together onto the ground. I lay on my side, my arm around her as she reclined against me. As the other girls ran up and down the field, we quietly tried to recover from the unexpected shock of what happened.
Acting as her team’s coach, when she stopped crying, I stood up and began “coaching” while she sat next to my feet. Over the next few minutes, I would periodically look at her, share a smile of support, and gently ask her how she was feeling. The quarter ended, and after a snack of orange slices with her teammates, I asked Kate if she was ready to “get back in the game.”
I vividly remember the surprised look of disbelief in her eyes, still moist with tears, her head shaking left and right as she said, “No, Dad, I don’t want to play anymore.” Every minute or two, I would glance down at her, still sitting as close to my feet as she could, arms wrapped around her knees, and ask again, “Kate, are you ready to get back in the game?”
Each time, my voice was as tender as I could make it, yet we both could feel the subtle push of encouragement embedded in my seemingly gentle question. Eventually, and reluctantly, Kate stood up and held my hand. We looked at one another, exchanging and blending our mutual feelings of fear and courage, doubt and hope, through our faces and eyes. She let go of my hand and cautiously stepped onto the pitch.
Within seconds of entering the game, Kate hesitated, then ran toward a free ball. A split second late, she reflexively pulled up and was immediately stung in the face by the ball for a second time. This time, I felt a deep ache in my belly, a sudden jolt of disbelief and helplessness, and I struggled to move, think, or breathe. Within a few seconds, I regrouped enough to come to her, kneel alongside her, hold her gently, and repeat, “Oh, Kate, I am so sorry, honey.”
Source: Julie Amble / 2008
From that moment on in Kate’s soccer career, which lasted into high school, I noticed her hesitate, flinch, and recoil whenever an opponent’s foot struck a ball near her. Gone were the days on the pitch when Kate smiled, laughed, and played freely to her potential.
I share this story and my feelings because they illustrate how my reflexive shifts into states of defense pushed me to push Kate to “get back in the game” before she or I was physiologically ready.
The disruption of safety within my body clouded my judgment and awareness. My inability to foster feelings of safety in myself pushed me to push Kate back onto the pitch. Kate’s lack of safety and trust was evident in her face and body, yet my lack of safety and trust added to it. As Kate walked onto the field, neither of us was in a body that felt safe enough to navigate the game’s complexities, risks, and speed.
Kate’s pain, emanating from her loss of safety and trust, disrupted my feelings of safety and trust. My awareness, patience, care, and compassion were replaced with fear, angst, worry, and concerns spiraling in my head about Kate falling behind her peers, losing a striker position on the club team, and the negative impact this would have on a future collegiate career.
As the ball bounced up and down that field, I bounced between physiological states of threat and feelings of fear, doubt, and worry. Unknowingly, I encouraged Kate back onto the field, hoping to feel better, convince myself everything would be okay, and relieve my discomfort.
Beneath the encouragement
As I did with Kate, we might encourage our children to get up and fight back because our own internal feelings of safety and trust are disrupted. The more attuned we are to them, the more rapid and intense our physiological reactions and emotional responses to their pain and suffering. As our children struggle, they share their pain with us as they adaptively shift through physiological states supporting defensive behaviors (fight, flight, freeze, withdraw, collapse).
Whether silent or spoken, our children express their feelings (i.e., physiological states of safety, threat, or overwhelm) through their voices, faces, and body language—eye contact, movements, postures, muscle tension, breathing. Whether we recognize it or not, how they feel triggers reflexive shifts in how we feel.
The exchange of bodily feelings occurs spontaneously and reciprocally, as their verbal and nonverbal cues trigger shifts in our physiological state, which return the favor, triggering reflexive shifts in their physiology. Back and forth we go, like passing a soccer ball, each influencing the other’s physiological and emotional states, whether we intend to or not.
Paradoxically, the more driven we are to get involved, and the more impatient we are to remain on the sidelines, wait for and follow our children’s lead, the more tense the tone of our face, voice, and body, and the more we conflict with the feelings of safety and trust they need from us despite our best intentions.
Source: Julie Amble / 2008
My Role as Dad
When I began understanding the mechanisms underlying safety and trust, the spontaneous, reciprocal impact our feelings have on one another, and our overarching biological imperative for connectedness, I redirected my primary focus of keeping my daughters safe from harm and danger to helping them feel safe with me. Internally, I shifted my physiological state from supporting protective, defensive strategies and behaviors to promoting accessibility, trustworthiness, and playfulness.
Instead of unintentionally signaling my daughters (through tension in my voice, face, and body language) that the world around them was dangerous and to be careful about who they trusted, I began cueing features of safety, connectedness, and belonging without deliberately doing or saying anything.
As I reflect on the impact this change in my internal state had on my children, I’ve come to believe that the most vital role we may play as parents is fostering feelings of safety and trust in ourselves and our children.
Amidst the constant competition, comparisons, and chaos inherent in modern life, our capacity to cultivate feelings of safety and trust in ourselves and others is our most significant responsibility, resource to model, and gift we can give to our children.
