What gives?
“You asked me what I thought, and now you’re not taking my advice? What’s up with that?”
Somehow, in my growing-up years, I had the notion that when I asked someone’s advice, there was an implicit obligation to follow it. Maybe that’s why I didn’t ask for advice very often.
I don’t know why I infrequently sought others’ input. Maybe I didn’t ask because I didn’t want to feel pressured to follow their advice. Or maybe I just trusted my own instincts. After all, I had a lot of vicarious life experience as a young, avid mystery reader. Nancy Drew and Trixie Belden, heck, even the Hardy Boys, can teach you a lot if you pay close attention to the clues.
Strangely, though, I do know that quiet listening and NOT giving advice has been a lifetime challenge for me.
In my youth, I had plenty of friends who asked for my advice, about their jobs, current crushes, or other friends, and I was happy to share my youthful wisdom. Falling into the trap of offering my advice occasionally backfired, though, especially when my friends followed it and something went awry, usually something I had no control over. It was one of the surest ways to threaten a friendship.
After a few such unfortunate events, I learned to take my friends at face value and keep my mouth shut a little more often.
Years later, when I discovered I was pregnant, though, I was in search of experienced advice. Seeking guidance and expert knowledge was a huge misstep in those long, long months. The pregnancy was unexpected–coming only five months after our wedding, and I was incredibly naive and nervous. In true INTJ fashion, I read everything I could find to address my trepidation, claim some control of my new life, and, ideally, direct the course of the pregnancy. My OBGYN finally told me, “Relax. You are not in control of what this baby is going to do.” Immersing myself in scientific studies, a Penelope Leach book, and T. Barry Brazelton articles finally put me over the edge as I learned about birth defects from becoming pregnant while on the Pill and the myriad ways I must communicate with my newborn to raise her in a healthy environment.
My attempt to find professional information quickly overwhelmed me, so I shifted my tactics. I sought out experiential information from the real experts, asking all the moms I met about their labor and delivery experiences. When my eyes became semi-permanently the size of half dollars, I stopped asking. But the larger my midsection grew, the more the now-unsolicited advice spewed from these members of the oldest club in the universe: Mothers of the World. Everywhere I went, mothers weighed in with their pregnancy stories: unrelenting labor, epidurals that didn’t work, and pain, pain, pain.
To add to my worries, we had no health insurance from our pitiful jobs, mine as a program director at a YWCA and my husband’s as an adjunct English professor at two colleges. Finally, my dread became contagious, and in a constant state of anxiety, we purchased the best insurance policy available, one that only covered emergency surgery and hospitalization.
When finally the labor “failed to progress,” God must’ve thought with a chuckle, “Told you I had this.” The delivery was an emergency C-section, so the policy kicked in, and we were presented with a very manageable bill to complement our sweet, rosy Punkidunk with a perfectly shaped head.
After that experience, I resolved NEVER to tell any pregnant woman the details of any of my three deliveries. Membership in Mothers of the World didn’t require frightening expectant mothers into C-sections.
With what to expect in pregnancy resolved, I didn’t need that advice in the next five years. But after all three kids had made their appearances, I seemed to have no reservations about sharing my wisdom with them. They had an issue? I had the answer. Isn’t that what parents do? Did I expect them to take my sage advice? Probably.
Maybe that was because of my career. I spent more than thirty years as an educator, a classroom teacher, a supervisor of pre-service teachers, and a professional development facilitator. I lived the business of solving problems and making people successful. If I didn’t solve people’s learning or teaching challenges, I wasn’t doing my job. And I always wanted to do my best, so I got pretty proficient at giving advice.
It wasn’t until I was at least halfway through my teaching career that I formally learned that the best teachers help their students solve their own problems by setting up investigative projects and asking big questions and conferencing with students and listening carefully. Back then, it was called Constructivism, and frankly, it was on the way out by the 2000s, being born in the progressive world of Montessori and Piaget in the 1960s and 70s. Writing Workshop methodology expanded on these principles, giving students choices for their compositions after learning skills to apply in various writing situations. I implemented them in the best ways I could. I believed in empowerment.
In short, the practices honored students’ “agency,” but agency was something it took me a while to grasp. In the beginning, while I loved empowering students with choices and discussing their choices as writers, down deep, I really expected them to take my suggestions.
At my second school, our superintendent led a study of The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People and hammered the agency notion home to me in another way. When “Seeking First to Understand,” the author Stephen Covey advises to simply rephrase the statements of the person who is talking about a concern. Don’t offer advice. Don’t ask questions. Don’t give your opinion. Just wait for the original speaker to begin talking again. Eventually, your conversation partner will figure out the solution to his own problem.
Strangely, as I put this into practice in my life and classrooms, I discovered that the other person usually won’t notice you’re merely summarizing their words. Especially if you use synonyms for a few of the words and give them your full attention, with eye contact and nods. And isn’t focusing fully on someone without glancing at an addictive screen the best way to honor your conversation partner, your loved one, your friend?
And here’s the really cool part: it’s helped me in my personal life. By learning to listen and restate someone’s issue, I’m becoming much better at keeping my opinions to myself. Better at keeping my nose out of other people’s business. Better at keeping my eventual comments more thoughtful and potentially less hurtful or controlling.
Sometimes, that irrepressible urge to solve someone’s problem creeps back into my head and out of my mouth. Sometimes, I still run through a list of options and then pros and cons. After years of problem-solving, that comes easily to me. Maybe too easily. I’m sure I miss the nuances of the situation by jumping to comment.
But I’m trying to make clear that there are many paths, many choices. Mine is not the only one. Or the best.
More than ever before, I believe that people own their own lives and choices. I believe that when we can listen to others without judgment or advice, we honor their capacity to make sound decisions. We don’t expect them to be perfect or mature or all-knowing. We let them be human. We honor their journey. And that’s empowering.
Do I regret my strict parenting advice? Sometimes. Do I regret my “guidance” during writing conversations? Maybe. I wonder if I could’ve given all my kids less advice and empowered them more.
But I try not to dwell on mistakes.
We live, we grow.
Honor the Journey.
