“I bombed!” I shrieked to my mother on a miserable December morning in 1999. Devastated by my Marketing Research final, I called my mom to cry. My grade going in was nearly 95%, and I was hoping to land an A+, boosting my average nicely. Graduation was approaching in April, and I needed to remain on the Dean’s list to ensure I finished with Honours. “The best I can get now is an 85%!”
My mom listened quietly as I sobbed. “Oh, Nadine” she asked in that kind voice of hers, “What odds?”
What odds, indeed.
This may seem a strange response, but to Newfoundlanders, it means, “What difference does it make?” Settled by English and Irish immigrants hundreds of years ago and still largely inhabited by their descendants, Newfoundland’s unique dialect is both colourful and confounding to the rest of the world.
Today’s psychotherapy relies heavily on cognitive behavioural therapy (CBT), a self-examination-based practice whereby clients are coached to track ‘automatic thoughts,’ and their impact on feelings and behaviours, looking for evidence to support and disprove the thought. Ultimately, this self-reflection promotes the ability to put our experiences into perspective, understanding how they fit into one’s perceived and actual reality.
It may also include asking a client, “What odds?”
My mother was not trained in CBT or therapy of any type. She has, however, raised four children (three relatively even-keeled sons and one overly anxious daughter), and spent years listening, warmly and kindly, characteristics that Carl Rogers considered essentials in humanistic-focused treatment. My mom has a lightness about her, a generous and enthusiastic spirit that places others at ease, her chattiness silenced when necessary, particularly during her daughter’s (cringeworthy) histrionics.
Her advice was brilliant. I kept my A and graduated with honours, emerging into the real world to discover how little grades mattered in my field. In fact, in the two decades that followed, not a single person, from HR to my bosses to my colleagues to my friends, inquired even once as to my GPA.
All these years later, I can ask myself, what odds? Absolutely none.
Therapy can be a polarizing world. To the practical-minded, it seems strange to simply sit and talk while examining all the little details of one’s life. My father, a pragmatic, no-nonsense type, cannot wrap his head around this hobby of mine. You can imagine how much I disagree with his reluctance to embrace the world’s most interesting subject (after all, he’s a member of the oldest Baby Boomers, a generation well known for ignoring mental health), but I can appreciate his stance. While he’d rather not share the meaning of his dreams or delve into the catharsis of talk therapy, he intentionally seeks mental and physical wellness, practicing mindfulness (my words, not his) in the solitude of his daily walks.
Mark Twain once famously wrote, “When I was a boy of 14, my father was so ignorant I could barely stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be 21, I was astonished at how much the old man had learned in seven years.” Our parents – hardly mental health experts or advocates themselves – may indeed have something to teach us about psychology given their years of simply living. They know a thing or two about getting up each day to face the world and putting one foot in front of the other (behavioural activation, in CBT terms). They’ve experienced, seen, evolved, and understood, and my goodness, do they have some wisdom to impart.
Some of you may have complicated relationships with your parents, carrying the scars of trauma from abuse, neglect, death, and divorce, so forgive my generalizations. I am very lucky to have loving and supportive parents, making it easy for me to hear their words now.
As I continue to wage the private and often ridiculous battles inside my head, I hear my mother, her voice soft with a hint of laughter, or my father’s teasing, flummoxed tone, reminding me of the simplicity and beauty of perspective.
“What odds, Nadine, what odds?”
