Hands Off the Helm

What happens when love makes us reach for a role we haven't actually been given?

There is a particular arrogance hidden inside love.

Sometimes we care about someone so much that we began believing our concern gives us jurisdiction.

I know this instinct well.

I'm a mother.

Parenthood develops in an almost involuntary desire to warn. We see the curve in the road and want to yell from the passenger seat. We remember the potholes we hit twenty years ago and assume our children would appreciate the map.

Usually, they don't.

And sometimes the person standing in front of us isn't ours to parent at all.

That's where love requires something harder than advice.

Restraint.

I've been learning that caring about someone doesn't automatically give me permission to steer.

Care is mine to give.

Advice requires an invitation.

I can listen.

I can ask questions.

I can be interested in someone's choices without inserting myself into them.

Sometimes unsolicited advice isn't only about helping the other person. Sometimes it's about relieving our own discomfort while watching someone we love make choices we can't control.

Maybe that's the harder truth about advice.

Sometimes it's about us.

Watching someone we care about approach a road we've already traveled can be uncomfortable. We remember the wrong turns. We remember what they cost us. And handing over the map feels easier than accepting that another person's journey belongs to them.

But experience doesn't give us ownership.

Love doesn't give us jurisdiction.

And wisdom, I've discovered, isn't always knowing what to say.

Sometimes wisdom is knowing when not to say it.

I've considered developing a practical system for moments when unsolicited advice threatens to escape.

Step one: Locate the nearest carbohydrate.

Step two: insert carbohydrate into mouth.

Step three: chew until urge to improve another person's life has passed.

Bread it turns out, is an excellent boundary-setting tool.

But perhaps the better practice is simpler.

Stay curious.

Leave room.

Let love exist without turning it into instruction.

Love them.

Listen to them.

Ask questions.

And when the waters ahead look familiar, remember that recognizing the current doesn't make the helm mine.

Sometimes love means knowing the way—and letting someone else steer anyway.