As I grew older though, I only became more acutely aware that learning these physical, fine motor skills that seemed as instinctive as breathing to my peers were a struggle for me. Though I was one of the top readers and writers in my class and received top marks on vocabulary quizzes, multi-step directions always jumbled in my mind, and I would always miss some step. Though I sang and starred in the school plays,I stumbled over choreography, sometimes even into my classmates. And as I approached my middle and high school years, my excitement at eventually mastering a new step waned, and my shame deepened. It deepened to the point where I started to resent these tiny, mundane processes that did not come naturally to me, angry at those barriers that kept me from fully joining and fully belonging in the same physical world as my peers.
The worst part is that my mind knew what the problem and solutions were, but I just could not make my body go through those motions. It's like I was stuck in a straight jacket rigidly confining my movement no matter how hard I struggled to break away.
"I swear I'm just like you," I wanted to explain to my classmates who would shake their heads as it took me three attempts to curl my fingers around the pencil I lifted off the ground, a process that to many is a fluid and continuous motion and to my teachers whose frustration was palpable when five attempts and five copies of my essay later, I FINALLY mastered the hole punch.
My problems only got worse as I transitioned from a small, private middle school to a large public high school where movement and noise abounded in all directions. Both physically and metaphorically, it was hard not to figure out where to stand without feeling like I was in the way. I felt like a puppy growing into a dog trying to figure out where to place the paws rapidly becoming too big for its body. I do think that there was a strong correlation between my physical disorientation with my emotional discombobulation. My hurt at feeling like I didn't belong hardened into anger; I so desperately wanted someone to blame and demonize for my own frustration if only to make me feel less like there was something wrong with me.
It was only when I turned 17 that I started to see my clumsiness as part of my charm. I always had a talent for making other people laugh, so I realized that this was part of my schtick and my act. My a-ha moment came when I was volunteering in a rural Costa Rican village the summer before my senior year of high school. As I walked along a hilly dirt road with the family that hosted me during my month there, I spotted my friend from the village Jose David. As I waved to him enthusiastically, I did not notice the dip in the hill below and down I tumbled. Jose, the family, and Carol, the other American volunteering with me in the village all laughed. Instead of a cold and malicious laughter, it was a warm, and bubbling laughter like a stream coursing through. I finally understood the concept of laughing with someone rather than at them, so I burst out laughing as well. I wasn't that awkward, clumsy, weirdo, but rather someone who entertains. The warmth and gentleness of their teasing made me feel fully included in a group for one of the first times in my life, but also that they liked me in spite of, or perhaps because of what I saw as impediments. Most of all, that there was nothing inherently "wrong" about the way I moved (not always gracefully) through the world.
Even though it would be another 6 years before I would know that I was diagnosed with a learning disability that inhibits both motor skills as well as how quickly one processes verbal directions, it was that moment in Costa Rica in which I began my long, and not fully ended journey to self-acceptance, self-love, and self-confidence. In fact, I came to view my clumsiness as an asset when forming social connections because tripping in an obvious place not only allows me and new friends to share a laugh, but it also allows me to show them that I am human and vulnerable, and that therefore, they can let go of their inhibitions around me. My clumsiness also allowed me to put myself in a lot of situations outside my comfort zone and allowed me to broaden my horizons. My trouble with motor skills made a lot of activities, including most sports, cooking, and painting, a challenge for me. But guess what, I didn't just want to sit on my bed, I wanted to experience life. So by accepting that I was not going to be skilled at everything, I opened my mind to new possibilities, and several of these experiments ended up successful. For example to this day, I still have a thirst for adventure that I quench through traveling to foreign countries and even getting up on stage and attempting to sing Mariah Carey in karaoke bars.
Yes, there are still times when I beat myself up for not mastering the art of driving at age 25 or still wallow in memories of my peers lack of understanding and acceptance during middle and high school, and in those instances, it is easy to lose site of the bigger picture. In those instances, though, I need to remind myself that my SPD doesn't define who I am, but rather gives me opportunities to live my life according to my values. And I will continue to remind myself of this until it is a concept as ingrained in my head as 2+2=4.
The worst part is that my mind knew what the problem and solutions were, but I just could not make my body go through those motions. It's like I was stuck in a straight jacket rigidly confining my movement no matter how hard I struggled to break away.
"I swear I'm just like you," I wanted to explain to my classmates who would shake their heads as it took me three attempts to curl my fingers around the pencil I lifted off the ground, a process that to many is a fluid and continuous motion and to my teachers whose frustration was palpable when five attempts and five copies of my essay later, I FINALLY mastered the hole punch.
My problems only got worse as I transitioned from a small, private middle school to a large public high school where movement and noise abounded in all directions. Both physically and metaphorically, it was hard not to figure out where to stand without feeling like I was in the way. I felt like a puppy growing into a dog trying to figure out where to place the paws rapidly becoming too big for its body. I do think that there was a strong correlation between my physical disorientation with my emotional discombobulation. My hurt at feeling like I didn't belong hardened into anger; I so desperately wanted someone to blame and demonize for my own frustration if only to make me feel less like there was something wrong with me.
It was only when I turned 17 that I started to see my clumsiness as part of my charm. I always had a talent for making other people laugh, so I realized that this was part of my schtick and my act. My a-ha moment came when I was volunteering in a rural Costa Rican village the summer before my senior year of high school. As I walked along a hilly dirt road with the family that hosted me during my month there, I spotted my friend from the village Jose David. As I waved to him enthusiastically, I did not notice the dip in the hill below and down I tumbled. Jose, the family, and Carol, the other American volunteering with me in the village all laughed. Instead of a cold and malicious laughter, it was a warm, and bubbling laughter like a stream coursing through. I finally understood the concept of laughing with someone rather than at them, so I burst out laughing as well. I wasn't that awkward, clumsy, weirdo, but rather someone who entertains. The warmth and gentleness of their teasing made me feel fully included in a group for one of the first times in my life, but also that they liked me in spite of, or perhaps because of what I saw as impediments. Most of all, that there was nothing inherently "wrong" about the way I moved (not always gracefully) through the world.
Even though it would be another 6 years before I would know that I was diagnosed with a learning disability that inhibits both motor skills as well as how quickly one processes verbal directions, it was that moment in Costa Rica in which I began my long, and not fully ended journey to self-acceptance, self-love, and self-confidence. In fact, I came to view my clumsiness as an asset when forming social connections because tripping in an obvious place not only allows me and new friends to share a laugh, but it also allows me to show them that I am human and vulnerable, and that therefore, they can let go of their inhibitions around me. My clumsiness also allowed me to put myself in a lot of situations outside my comfort zone and allowed me to broaden my horizons. My trouble with motor skills made a lot of activities, including most sports, cooking, and painting, a challenge for me. But guess what, I didn't just want to sit on my bed, I wanted to experience life. So by accepting that I was not going to be skilled at everything, I opened my mind to new possibilities, and several of these experiments ended up successful. For example to this day, I still have a thirst for adventure that I quench through traveling to foreign countries and even getting up on stage and attempting to sing Mariah Carey in karaoke bars.
Yes, there are still times when I beat myself up for not mastering the art of driving at age 25 or still wallow in memories of my peers lack of understanding and acceptance during middle and high school, and in those instances, it is easy to lose site of the bigger picture. In those instances, though, I need to remind myself that my SPD doesn't define who I am, but rather gives me opportunities to live my life according to my values. And I will continue to remind myself of this until it is a concept as ingrained in my head as 2+2=4.
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