My Father
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August 30, 1982. I was fourteen.
Late that afternoon, I went to the hospital with our neighbor and our pastor. My father was lying there. His hands were cold, his body still. He was gone.
My father went through periods of depression. In the time leading up to his death, he had increasingly come to feel that he no longer mattered. Work, and the sense that he could make a difference in the lives of others, had always played an important role in his life.
That day, he had taken his own life.
When I was a child, he sometimes took me with him to the nursery. I sat on the back of his moped, my arms wrapped tightly around his waist. I felt so grown-up when I was allowed to help out. Sometimes he would pay me a little from his own pocket.
I remember one day when he told me he could not pay me. When I asked why, he said:
“I saw you standing still for a moment. And standing still doesn’t deserve to be rewarded.”
Without realizing it, I came to see keeping going as something to be proud of. Working hard meant contributing. Standing still soon began to feel like falling short. Only when I had given everything I had at the end of a workday could I tell myself it was enough.
For years, I mainly saw the strength in that. It helped me study, work, take responsibility, and persevere when things were difficult.
What once gave us direction can become a rule we hold ourselves to more and more rigidly. I work hard can quietly become I have to work hard. And eventually, perhaps even: I am only worthwhile when I work hard. Why do we sometimes continue to live by rules that once helped us, even when they no longer do?
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This chapter is from my book Doing What Matters – Resilience at Work with ACT.
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