The Sun and My Sons

“You don’t deserve to live.”

My just turned-five-year-old said this when I wouldn’t buy him a twenty-dollar car at CVS. For someone who has literally fought to stay alive since birth-and has lost all four siblings-those words hit differently. I felt the rage rise.

So I drove him back to our timeshare, left him with family, and went to a coffee shop to process.

When I returned, he ran to me with a hug and an apology. I know he was just angry, feeling powerless, grasping for control the only way he could in that moment. So I held both things-understanding his experience and helping him understand that words carry weight. We talked about anger. We talked about repair.

A few days later at Epcot, our ten-year-old said something cutting that set off a chain reaction between him and his dad. I stayed calm, addressed what needed addressing, and kept walking. Later my mom pulled me aside. “It’s because of you,” she said. “The mother is the sun. Everyone orbits around her. When you’re doing well, we all feed off of that.”

I sat with that.

Then came the moment that showed me where I still have work to do. I was heading our for a walk when an email arrived-a rejection from a group practice I’d applied to. I felt anger surge immediately, and without realizing it, snapped at my son for making me wait.

I went alone. Walked, Reflected. The anger wasn’t about him-it was about the sadness underneath the rejection. I came home and told him so.

He looked at me and said “That’s okay mom. You aren’t supposed to work somewhere else. You need to have your own practice. Remember what you told me? Rejection is protection.”

I may be their sun. But they are absolutely mine-shining a light on where I still need to heal, and on where my own light already shines bright.