Glennon Doyle - Untamed

After the divorce, Tish began to fade. I watched her slowly retreat into food for comfort and spend more and more time alone in her room. I knew she needed to move her body more, but I also know, from personal experience, that suggesting this to a child will backfire. Tish was ten. I was ten when I fell into bulimia. My baby looked like she was teetering—right on the edge of falling. I was afraid.

I sat on the couch with Abby one night and said, “I think we need to get her back into therapy.”

Abby said, “I disagree. I think she needs to get out of her head, not deeper into it. I’ve been thinking about this a lot. I want Tish to try out for an elite travel soccer team.”

ME: I’m sorry. What did you just say? Have you met Tish? That child would not run if the house were on fire. And those travel girls have been playing since birth. No, thank you. We are trying to help her, not humiliate her.

ABBY: I’ve got a hunch here. She’s a natural leader. She gets this spark in her eye when we talk about soccer. I think she might love it.

ME: No chance. She’s way too fragile right now. What if she doesn’t make it and it breaks her?

ABBY: What if she makes it and it makes her?

Behind my back, Abby called Craig, a lifelong soccer player, and it quickly became two against one. The plan was to approach Tish and ask if she’d like to try out for an elite travel soccer team against my will and better mama judgment. One day after school all three of us sat Tish down.

She froze and looked warily at us. After a divorce, kids are in fight-or-flight mode for a long while. She asked, “What happened? More bad news?”

Craig said, “No. No more bad news. We’re wondering if you’d be interested in trying out for a travel soccer team.”

Tish giggled. We didn’t giggle with her, so she stopped. She looked at Craig, then me. Then her eyes locked on Abby.

TISH: Wait. Are you serious?

ABBY: Yes.

TISH: Do you think I could actually make it?

I opened my mouth to say, “Well, honey, the truth is that these girls have been playing much longer than you have and don’t forget that just trying out is so brave and we will not focus on outcome, just our input…”

But before I could speak Abby looked Tish dead in the eyes and said, “Yes. I believe you could make it. You have potential and passion. Somebody’s got to make it. Why not you?”

Oh my God, I thought. She is reckless. She has no fucking idea what she is doing.

Without taking her eyes off Abby, Tish said, “Okay. I’ll try.”

“Awesome,” Craig said.

“Cool,” Abby said.

DANGER AHEAD, I thought.

We three smiled at Tish.

Tryouts were four weeks away. Tish, Abby, and Craig spent those weeks at the elementary school practicing shooting and in our living room watching old Women’s National Team games. Abby and Craig traded texts and emails about training strategy. Tish and Abby talked about the game so incessantly that Soccer became the official second language of our home. They also went for runs together each day, which never went smoothly. Tish complained and cried the whole way through. One afternoon they walked into the foyer together, sweating and panting. Tish continued her run right up the stairs, stomping the entire way. Before she slammed the door to her room she screamed, “I CAN’T DO IT! I HATE IT! I CAN’T DO THIS!”

I froze and began to consider what medications we might prescribe Tish after this dangerous experiment failed and we had officially ruined her life. Again.

Abby turned me toward her and looked into my eyes. “It’s fine,” she said. She pointed upstairs. “That? That’s exactly right. Don’t go up there. She’ll be down in a bit.”

Tish came downstairs in a bit, red-eyed and quiet. She sat on the couch between Abby and me. We watched TV for a while, and during a commercial break Abby said, without taking her eyes off the TV, “I hated running every single day of my career. I cried about it all the time. I did it because I knew I couldn’t be great if I wasn’t fit, but I freaking hated every minute of it.”

Tish nodded and asked, “When are we running tomorrow?”

The weeks pass, and now we are driving Tish to her first day of tryouts. I have both my hands wrapped around a gigantic travel mug filled with stress-relief tea. When we arrive at the fields, all the other girls are in their shiny travel uniforms and Tish is in a summer camp T-shirt and PE shorts. She is also at least a foot shorter than all of the other girls. When I point this out to Abby, she says, “What? No, she’s not. Babe, when it comes to Tish, you’ve got some kind of projected body dysmorphia. Look closely, she’s as tall as the rest of them.” I squint and say, “Hm. Well she’s littler inside. ” Abby says, “No, she’s not, Glennon. No. She’s not.”

Tish, Abby, Craig, and I huddle up. Tish looks at me, and her eyes are watery. I hold my breath. Abby looks at me and widens her eyes. I want to say, “Baby, let’s forget about all of this. Mommy’s got you. Let’s get back in that car and go get some ice cream.” Instead I say, “I believe in you, Tish. This is a hard thing to do. We can do hard things.”

She turns away from us and begins to move slowly toward the field. I watch her walk away from me and toward this very, very hard thing and never in my life has my heart traveled so far up my throat. She looks so small, and the sky, field, and task ahead of her are so big. She keeps walking, though, away from us, toward the sideline bench where the other girls are sitting. As soon as she makes it to the bench, she and we realize: Oh my God. Oh my God—there is no room left on the bench for her. She stands awkwardly off to the side. She doesn’t know what to do with her hands. She is on the fringe. She is outside the Golden circle. She does not belong. She is not one of them.

Abby grabs my hand. “You okay?”

ME: No. This is a mistake.

ABBY: This is not a mistake.

I grab my hand back and pray: Please, God, if you exist, make them be nice to my daughter. Make them invite her into the circle. Make the ball go into the goal every time she touches it or just create some other kind of soccer miracle so she’ll somehow make this team. If all else fails, send an earthquake. But please, God, let this be over soon, because my heart cannot take this.

Tryouts begin. Tish doesn’t seem to know what she’s doing. She loses the ball often. She isn’t as quick as the other girls. She looks over at Abby several times, and Abby smiles and nods at her. Tish keeps trying. She has a few good moments. She can complete a pass, and Abby insists that she has some kind of vision of the field, an understanding of the game that seems to exceed the other girls’ vision. But the hour is tough on her. And me. After it’s over, we walk to the car together and climb in. Tish is quiet the whole way home. After a while I turn around and say, “Baby?”

Abby puts her hand on mine and shakes her head no. I turn back around and stay quiet the rest of the way home.

We go back to tryouts the next day. And the next. We go back every night for a week. On Friday night, we get an email from the coach. It says, “She’s got a lot to learn. But she’s got a spark and she’s a hard worker and a leader. We need that. We’d like to offer Tish a spot on our team.”

I cover my mouth and reread the email twice to make sure I’m understanding it correctly. Abby is doing the same thing silently over my shoulder. I turn around to her and say, “Holy. Shit. How did you know?”

Abby has tears in her eyes. She says, “I didn’t know. I haven’t slept through the night for three weeks.”