The Motherhood of the Misguided Empath

In my lifetime, I have seen one and only one episode of Star Trek. (I think this is a good thing.) It’s the one called “The Empath.” It’s about some aliens that Capt. Kirk and the gang discover in their travels. Apparently, an Empath can heal people by taking on their pain. (Back off, Trekkies, I’m doing the best that I can.)

My friends, I have decided that I am an Empath. A maternal Empath, if you will.

I’ve talked, in the past, about how we mothers feel our kids’ pain more than they do. When they experience heartbreak, disappointment or sadness, we feel it ten-fold. In return, our kids think we can’t possibly understand what they’re going through. They couldn’t be more wrong.

Well, today, I figured it out. I’m nothing more than an Empath. A misguided Empath, because I have this bizarre notion that I can somehow fix my kids’ problems by feeling bad. It’s stupid and I can’t help it.

Today, my daughter was having a particularly challenging day. She was down and out. So down, that she couldn’t explain what she was down about. She takes after me in that way. Her gloom was palpable. Apparently, so was mine.

My husband tried to ask what was going on with me. I explained that it was because our daughter was bummed. He looked puzzled.

“I’m an Empath,” I said.

“Ahh. Star Trek reference. I get it,” he said. “That’s just one of the reasons that I love you.”

And that is why we have been married for nearly 24 years. We are both a little geeky, a little quirky and a little misguided in the notion that we have any control over the emotions of a teenage girl. (Well, at least one of us is.)