Make The Freaking Call
Written May 2020
My daughter turned 21 today, a milestone that has me reflecting on the long journey we've taken together.
The First Calls
Throughout the first eight years of her life, my daughter and I shared an especially close bond. While this isn't so uncommon these days, to this dad, it meant the world. The entire world. As my firstborn, she instantly filled a void I had carried my whole life as an adoptee — a sense of not belonging that ended the second I looked into her eyes for the first time.
When she was eight years old, her mom and I divorced. Like a quiet tornado, divorce disrupts and reshapes the landscape of a family in ways that are both obvious and undeniable, yet hard to fully fathom, especially in the early years. Despite remaining a steady and sustained presence in her life, I noticed a shift in our relationship. Our once easy and effortless bond began to feel more fragile and delicate as a subtle distance settled between us. For me, this was pure agony.
A decade later, in the fall of 2017, she left home for college. I was excited and happy for her. At the time, it was obvious that she needed the space. However, despite feeling strongly that separating from her family for a time would help her find herself, I was also terrified that the distance between us could potentially widen.
Lest we forget life's incredible ability to amaze and enthrall us at every turn, this not what happened at all.
Almost immediately after arriving at school, from her first semester to her graduation four years later, phone calls between us grew increasingly longer and more frequent, with more emotional warmth and depth. I watched closely and proudly as a beautiful, courageous, adventurous young woman began to emerge. She leaned on me for support, sought my advice, and trusted me with her fears, dreams, challenges, and triumphs. One conversation at a time, I felt the unspoken distance between us dissolve, replaced by the kind of relationship I'd longed for, for years. My girl was back.
Make the Call
Throughout both of my children's lives, I've made countless appeals to them to MAKE THE CALL. In the beginning, this was essentially a father's plea to his kids to...
- never, ever get in a car with someone who's been drinking — MAKE THE CALL
- never ignore or blow off the trouble you may find yourself in — MAKE THE CALL
- never disregard your screw-ups, no matter how badly things go (I assured them there'd be many of these along the way) — MAKE THE CALL
No matter what you do, MAKE THE FREAKING CALL. And why not? I assured them both that making the call was a get out of jail free card. My promise to them — the quid pro quo — was simple: while the costs for NOT making the call can be enormous, potentially life-deranging, the costs for making the call are nonexistent. Zero cost, consequence, or downside. Just upside and gain. Make the call, I told them, and you can expect my instant help, unbridled support, and a calmly measured response. That was the deal.
Furthermore, they both knew that idea behind making the call wasn't something I wanted them to do for me, but rather something I wanted them to do for themselves. Plainly, it was the easiest, simplest, and fastest way to unburden themselves, get immediate help, and find a supportive, compassionate, and empathetic ear, without limit, judgment, or condition, no matter what, NO QUESTIONS ASKED. Make the call and I'll be right there with you; don't make the call and you're likely to find yourself all alone.
Over time, however, this little family artifact morphed into something more. Much more. Similar to the indelibly wise recovery maxim — a problem shared is a problem instantly halved — making the call matured and transformed into code for you are not alone, now or ever. There is no problem we cannot solve, no challenge we cannot overcome, and no fear, pain, or sadness we cannot remake into a useful and helpful teacher IF we face it together.
She Makes the Call
Like most dads, there are innumerable wonderful things I could tell you about my daughter, but for purposes of this discussion, let's leave it at this: she always reaches out for help; no matter what, she always makes the call.
Even as a little girl, my daughter had a wisdom that seemed beyond her years. Her eyes, an ever-shifting shade of blue, often felt like they were seeing right through you — as if she understood things you hadn't yet begun to grasp. When she was four, in 2003, she started asking me about the robots — When are the robots coming? What do the robots want? What are the robots planning? Will the robots be kind to us? Her deep curiosity was a window into her growing awareness of the world and herself.
MINI DIGRESSION: a four-year old inquiring about the robots? In 2003? What was that about? That’s a story for another time.
As my daughter grew older, this awareness sharpened into an astonishing self-knowledge — highly insightful and prescient, sensitive but clear-eyed, deeply loving and fiercely independent. She has a firmer grasp on her own strengths, vulnerabilities, needs, and limits than any person I've ever known. She's also, without much question or doubt, the bravest, most courageous person I know.
Such depth of insight is both a blessing and a burden. Sometimes, we can know too much about ourselves for our own good. I've watched her navigate this delicate balance over the years, developing strategies to manage all that she understands about herself. Among these, the most potent and impactful by far is her ability — and dogged willingness — to ask for help. She doesn't hesitate to reach out when something feels off, or she's sad, scared, or overwhelmed. When life throws her off course or presents a mountain she's unsure how to climb, she makes the call.
IMPORTANT DIGRESSION: I shouldn't have to say this, but I will — there’s a grave misconception out there that asking for help is a sign of weakness. Those who believe this are terribly confused. Not only is asking for help, sharing your fears, and seeking guidance from friends and family a strength, it is a SUPERPOWER. And because my daughter wields it as often as she does, she unquestionably has SUPER POWERS. 'Nuff said.
Answering the Call
As our phone calls continued throughout her college years, they too evolved. In the early days, our conversations often revolved around the hurdles of young adulthood — navigating administrative red tape, managing challenges, and mending heartbreaks. As time passed, the nature of our talks shifted. By her later college years, we began to investigate, discuss, and penetrate life's bigger questions together. This was also around the time she began ending every call with the words, I love you. We spent hours upon hours talking about creativity and aesthetics — art, music, film, writing, the role of creative people in society, and their influence on culture. Our conversations ran the gamut from the practical and profane to the profound — understanding our station in life, finding purpose and meaning, the value and necessity for different kinds of friendships, paying attention, and seeing beyond shallow waters to the deeper, soul-filled ones. On and on it went.
After each of these calls, even the ones where she was frustrated or sad and I was sick with worry, I always felt a swell of pride and gratitude. The beautiful baby girl with the olive glow and knowing eyes who came screaming into our lives — no doubt, to alert us she had arrived and that we best pay attention — was back. She was the same girl who built countless blanket forts, carved an unimaginable number of pumpkins, picked more apples than anyone could ever eat, baked more cakes than a bakery, wrote and performed songs and plays, and co-founded the legendary Tushy Burger franchise with her beloved Daddy.
Despite drifting slightly afield when the family she transformed fell apart, she had returned. Now she was even more than the little girl I've never forgotten. She was the remarkable, courageous young woman with the old soul, now deeper, broader, tougher yet softer and more tender than ever. Teaching as she learned, inspiring as she moved through life like a force of nature, and true to form, still always making the call — a phrase she shape-shifted into her own unique code for love.