Parenting Burnout? I Tried Something Unexpected, and It Changed Everything

We stood awkwardly arranged in a circle at Buxtons, an empty event venue and creative space in downtown Anacortes, Washington. There were seven of us, some weathered (me), some fresh-faced, and all optimistically nervous.

Mismatched furniture lined the walls. Our instructor Kari was bubbly and warm, sporting bouncy gray curls and fashionable casual clothes. We took turns making halting introductions, saying our names and what we hoped to get out of the class.

None of us seemed to have anything in common, other than our shared purpose: We were here to learn improv comedy.

Surprising myself

This was not something I ever planned to do.

With one child in kindergarten and one in third grade, personal fun time was not high on the priority list. For years, it hadn’t been on the list at all.

Late at night, I was doggedly updating my calendar and scheduling activities for my kids. My youngest son had recently participated in a short pirate-themed theater experience and wanted more. He liked choosing a pirate name, dressing up and generally zooming around the theater, testing the patience of the retiree instructor. Struggling to keep my eyes open while scrolling through the theater’s newsletter, I read “Intro to Improv Comedy for Adults” and immediately thought, “I’ll never do that.”

My reserves were nearing exhaustion and I needed a break.

And just as quickly, my next thought was, “I should definitely do that.”

This was not like me.

Life had been chaotic at home, in a chaotic year. We had just completed a 3,000-mile move from the East Coast to the West. Behavioral challenges from my oldest child were triggering my husband’s untreated anxiety, resulting in massive meltdowns from both the child and the parent. My reserves were nearing exhaustion and I needed a break.

Setting aside the notion that one more commitment was not what I needed, I signed up for the class.

Relearning failure

And that’s how I found myself standing in that circle, dumbfounded as Kari described the first thing we would do that evening. One at a time we each stepped forward, raising our hands and shouting “I failed!” while everyone clapped exuberantly.

Where was I? Mars?

Turns out, Kari was setting the expectation that we would try stuff, we would mess up, and we would be okay. This was intentional foreshadowing of failure and guidance on how we were to respond to it — positively.

Over the course of the night, we did just that as we participated in all kinds of improv exercises, such as “News flash! News flash!” We shouted those introductory words and then whatever headline came to mind: “News flash, news flash: Pocket lint tastes like jelly beans!”

This was intentional foreshadowing of failure and guidance on how we were to respond to it — positively.

As we took turns, the temptation to think ahead of something clever to say grew like storm clouds in summer. We did our best to bat them away, to stay in the moment, trusting in the silly magic of spontaneity.

The cost of always getting it ‘right’

Since grade school I had been conditioned by parents, teachers and bosses to think carefully about what I said, because I would be judged for it, unsparingly. Failure was unacceptable, and by extension so were people who failed. These lessons turned me into a socially acceptable member of society, simultaneously laying waste to the experimental, creative, goofy parts of my personality. That night I learned those parts were still alive.

When class wrapped, I went home feeling light and calm, inside and out, as if I had just done an hour of hot yoga for my soul. 

My favorite game turned out to be “Dr. Know It All.” Three of us sat in chairs facing the audience, collectively becoming Dr. Know It All, an “expert” in whatever the audience named (toe jam! windsurfing!), and answering audience questions by forming sentences one word at a time. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing or what I was saying. I laughed so hard tears streamed down my face.

Bringing my joy back home

When class wrapped, I went home feeling light and calm, inside and out, as if I had just done an hour of hot yoga for my soul. I didn’t have any more answers for navigating the immense challenges we were facing as a family. But I did have something that had long ago faded, proof that I was put on this Earth for more than giving the right answer in someone else’s eyes. A reminder I could be playful and silly, for no reason other than fun.

I opened the door and saw my two little boys, looking expectantly in my direction. I scooped them up and knew that bedtime would be a little easier that night, and a little sweeter.