The Unfiltered Truth: What I Can't Say at Playground Conversations
Breaking through isolation to find the village that exists in unexpected corners
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I have the hope that this entry develops into more than just a one-dimensional blog detailing the day's mundane happenings in sequence like a quick journal piece. Even if reflective in nature, I want this to be more than a diary full of my most secret musings.
I haven't felt more alone than now during this phase of my life, even in comparison to being surrounded by fewer people. This isn't a lonesome type of situation though, if I'm being honest. I'm not going to cry about it anytime soon, even if it is a sad fact generally.
When I open my mouth to share anything, my words get automatically filtered and modified to better fit the shape of my environment at the time. I make my truth smaller and more quiet until it comes out in the same shape as everyone else's. I'm selective. I tell white lies. "It's been pretty good this way."
I do this to save my company from the awkwardly-fitting burden of beginning to comprehend a totally different dimension of life expressed on the same plane, and of offering up their unsteady stream of sympathies. It's not easy for them to imagine what I must feel like on a constant basis.
And it's no easier, if not more difficult, for me to experience as the special needs mother of two extraordinary and pretty toddlers on the autism spectrum. I love the children I have been blessed with more than this life, but I have to live in this world that isn't meant for us, or is even kind to us.
And it's full of mothers whom I might as well live on a different planet from, honestly. It's no wonder why I hardly bother with anything beyond a greeting in conversation with any of them. This is strategically kind to the both of us: They're saved from being made to feel uncomfortable and unsure, and I get to avoid having my thoughts centered on myself and my own life at that moment.
I know that I'm lacking a Village for support and encouragement. And I grieve this to a very certain degree. But as I have learned to over the past few years, I feel it unflinchingly, every bit and tendril of all the full emotion, and I progress forward as usual without a pause. I can even do it with a smile.
I sometimes wonder if I even genuinely desire to have more intentional friendships in my life. As I considered in an earlier entry, I think that we all do, even if deep down below our surface.
Seeking 'My People': The Quest for Adult Friendships
It's weird. It's hard. The honest truth about navigating friendship as a grownup.
But then I question if I possess the inner drive enough to do something within my power to facilitate such in my day-to-day, and right now I can say that I honestly don't know the answer to that question. I wonder if this is another failing or flaw of mine and whether I should frame it negatively. All I know for certain is that if I didn't have the few people that I do know to be truly "in my corner" as a source of support for me and my family... Well, I'd hate to see the outcome of that.
I feel underserved by the traditional routes to companionship. These ways just might not be practical for someone living my reality. I may agree to vague playdate plans, but I know that they'll never happen.
I also happen to know that I'm far removed from being the only mother who is living out my particular reality. There are many of us, and this thought alone feels like a small degree of welcome mental relief. There are others who feel like the mental calculus required to navigate neurotypical social spaces feels like solving complex equations while everyone else is doing simple addition.
Once at our local playground, another mom kindly struck up a conversation with me while our children played nearby. She was very friendly, asking normal questions about Caleb's age and whether he was in preschool. I felt a familiar tightening in my chest as I weighed my options: Do I give the simplified version of our life? Do I mention autism and therapy schedules? Do I risk the sympathetic head tilt followed by "I don't know how you do it"?
I chose the simplified version. We chatted pleasantly for fifteen minutes about nothing consequential. By the time I buckled both of my kids into their car seats, I was emotionally drained from this performance of normalcy.
Sometimes I wonder whether motherhood is inherently isolating for everyone, and I'm just experiencing an amplified version of what all mothers feel. But then I see the ease with which other moms form carpools and take turns hosting playdates, the casual way they text each other about last-minute park meetups, and I know there's a fundamental difference.
What fascinates me is how well I've adapted. I've become fluent in small talk while maintaining an invisible barrier around the truths of my life. I've mastered the art of engagement without attachment. And in many ways, I've made peace with this—this strangeness—of living between worlds.
Perhaps true connection isn't found in the quantity of relationships but in their quality. The handful of people who have crossed that barrier—who have seen the unfiltered reality of our lives and stayed—are worth more than a hundred casual acquaintances to me. My mother who reads my email forwards about sensory processing issues not because she has to, but because she wants to better understand her grandchildren. The neighbor who never flinches at meltdowns and offers her help without making me feel like a charity case.
These connections didn't happen by accident. They required willing vulnerability from me—the courage to be seen in the messiness of this life—and extraordinary empathy from them. They couldn't be manufactured through conventional social channels.
So maybe the village I need isn't the one I originally imagined. Maybe it's not found in mom groups or school functions or neighborhood barbecues. Maybe it exists in the unexpected corners, with people who enter our lives through side doors rather than the main entrance.
And perhaps most importantly, I'm learning that creating community for other mothers like me—through these words, through this space I'm building—is also a way of finding community for myself. By speaking my truth without filtering it through politeness, I'm sending out a beacon to others navigating similar waters.
If you're reading this and nodding along, knowing exactly what it feels like to translate your existence for others' comfort, then you're part of my village already. And I'm part of yours.
And that recognition might just be enough for now.
Until the next time I see you,
Cheniece ♡
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The 'performance of normality' - what a great phrase. You describe it so well, the decision each time of how much to share and the cost either way. Thank you. I hope you find people who energise you when you interact with them. That's another part for me - how much energy and capacity I have to reach out and to build relationships.