“Don’t wait for me,” I called out to my husband who was bounding up the Stwamus Chief stone steps with his long legs and vibrant enthusiasm. He looked down at me and smiled, “Okay! I’ll wait for you when the steps end.”
I huffed my way up to the meeting point, checking in with myself, feeling strong, all the working out of the past few months showing me how strong and fit I was. Okay, still not as fit as my husband but for being 51 and in the throes of menopause, not bad. I really had meant these words “Don’t wait for me.”
In that moment, I stopped in my tracks and had a déjà vu—the memory of my saying the very same words to my husband two years ago when we hiked The Chief for the first time. I remembered clearly feeling angry and upset that he was ahead of me, but pretended to be okay and called out, “Don’t worry—go ahead. I’m fine. I know you like to go fast at the beginning of a hike.” Two years ago, I had said these words to him, but I had not meant them. He had taken me at my word and had gone up on his merry way loving the climb and the challenge. He had done all the right things—checked in on me, made sure I was safe and had taken me at my word, but it hadn’t been enough. Two years ago, I had climbed, taking each step slowly, pacing myself and feeling so angry on the inside. I had cried as I climbed, thoughts of “why am I even doing this with him if he’s going to climb ahead?” and “Isn’t this supposed to be a partner activity?” and “What a jerk for leaving me behind.” By the time I had met up with him at the point where the stair steps stopped, I was near tears, barely looking at him and super angry. I won’t tell you what the rest of the climb was like—me in my head, still angry that he hadn’t known to wait for me, hadn’t known to slow down to move at my pace, hadn’t known that even though I had said go ahead without me, he should have known that I really wanted him to slow down and stay with me. At this moment though, in the present, I was truly okay. I felt happy that he was doing what he loved at the speed that he loved. We would meet up and the rest of the climb would be great. I felt grounded, excited to push myself and very solid in myself. This is when it occurred to me that I was flexing my differentiation muscle. I’d been teaching differentiation to my couples for the last few months. “It’s holding onto yourself” I would say. “It’s tolerating the differences between you and your partner.” “It’s knowing what you each like and love for yourselves, not giving in to your need to be the same person and not expecting someone else to know your needs without asking for them.”
“I’m tolerating and embracing the differences between us,” I whispered to myself. My husband can be who he is (speedy climber) and I can be who I am (slow and steady climber) and that’s okay. He doesn’t have to wait for me. He doesn’t have to slow down to be with me and I don’t have to speed up to keep up with him. We can both move at our own pace and still meet and be together. I was holding onto myself, digging my own roots, my own path…not getting rattled and upset by the difference between us. We could be different and together. Once the stair steps ended, we found a pace that worked for both of us and we scrambled up to the top, enjoying each other and enjoying the climb. We chose to climb the rest of it together because we wanted to not because either of us felt like we had to.
One of the many nuances of the concept of differentiation is to tolerate the differences between you and your partner. Once I could let go of what and who I wanted him to be, I was able to celebrate who he was. In that place, I could also look inwards and celebrate myself.
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