Padding

I have a scene in my head. A young boy is taking his first lesson in riding a bike. The mother, and her natural motherly instincts, decides she does not want her little boy to get hurt. She runs to the store and buys all the padding she can get her hands on-elbows, knees, chest, shin, shoulder, and a helmet. She goes home and covers him from head to toe. Her intentions are to keep him safe, not let him get hurt, spoil him.

The young boy hops onto his new bike but to his dismay, he cannot ride. No matter how many times he gets on, no matter how hard or fast he pedals, no matter how straight he keeps his body, not matter how determined he is to stay on the bike, he cannot ride it. He continues to fall. Frustrated, he gives up and never gives it another attempt.

Years later, he picks up his bike again and decides he'll give it one last shot. Without the protective padding put on by his mother, he gets on the bike and starts to pedal. He goes. He goes so fast and so far. He did it. He's done it. He's learned and grown.

Reflecting on why he was able to achieve this task, he realizes that the reason why he was not previously able to learn how to ride a bike was because of all the protective padding he was wearing. It was dragging him down, suffocating him, not allowing him to move freely in order to recognize what he needed to do. His mother's loving intentions on protecting him did him wrong. But now that all that padding was removed, he was able to ride.

I am the mother. You are the child. I'm letting go of this padding that I've been suffocating you with so that you may learn, grow, and mature. You and I both need it. When you've completed this task, I would be more than happy to let you walk into my door. But in the meantime, you need to leave. Hopefully you'll thank me in the future. And hopefully, I don't lose you.