Jellyfish

because loving people is just too complicated

“You’ve got to stop trying to love people. It’s just too complicated!” 

After quickly shutting off the faucet, I turn away from the kitchen sink where I’ve been washing lunch dishes and look at the phone I propped up against a vitamin bottle. I’ve been half paying attention to the YouTube lecture, but at this statement, I glue my eyes to the screen. About a year ago, after listening to a podcast calling her a cult leader, I started watching content by Teal Swan when I do chores. Some of the stuff she says really resonates with me, so I guess I’ve joined the cult.

She goes on to illustrate her point with a story about a girl who saw a jellyfish and decided she loved it. She thought it was beautiful and was mesmerized by the creature. She loved the jellyfish so much, she took it out of the water and cuddled it up in a blanket. 

“The thing is, you can't do that to a jellyfish or you’ll kill it.”

She concludes the lesson with a final thought: “We are like the little girl with the jellyfish in our relationships. We fail to understand the being in front of us.”

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My oldest son is two in my first vivid memory of not taking time to understand one of my children. It was a day where I was busy with dishes or cooking or another task in the kitchen. The unmistakable clang of the glass dog food dishes pricked my ears and I turned to look across the kitchen into the small laundry room. 

“How many times have I told you not to play in the dog water???” I yelled, instantly irritated at the sight of him kneeling on the dog’s rug.

Before I was fully conscious of what my feet were doing, I was across the cold, gray tile floor. I grabbed his chubby arm and pulled him roughly up the single step. His bewildered expression, with raised brows and wide eyes didn’t deter me. 

“You are going to time out in your room!”

He spent about five minutes sitting on his bed quietly before I came to get him. We moved through the rest of the day as usual. Reading books to him and his one-year-old brother, play time in the backyard, singing to music. We’d both forgotten my harshness by the boys’ bedtime. 

After they were both down for the night, I went to the laundry room to feed the dogs. I scooped the food out of the small metal trash can used as a storage container and went to pour it in the bowls. What I saw when I looked down had me close to dry heaving with shame.

Next to the food bowls for our real dogs was my toddler’s plastic toy dog bowl. I instantly realized what I’d failed to notice in the afternoon. He hadn’t been playing in the dog water as I’d accused him of doing. He hadn’t been disobeying a rule or trying to cause a problem. He was simply trying to feed his favorite stuffed animal, Puppy, in the place he knew the dogs in our house ate their meals. 

“You are not a good mom,” I whispered to myself. A tear slipped down my cheek as I remembered the unreasonable anger I’d had toward someone I was supposed to love more than anything. I didn’t even try to find out what he was doing.

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I review the Teal Swan lecture multiple times over the months since I first watched it. The idea—that to love someone means to see and understand them deeply—brings the humbling parenting memory to mind often. I can’t help but relive my failure to love. 

One day, after my brain punishes me with the Puppy story again, I remember the very first time I saw my son. The exact feeling of his slippery, warm body being placed on my chest when he was born. My arms were shaking and I was in complete shock at the enormity held in this tiny person. 

Up until that moment, I thought love was simply about doing things you believed would make other people happy. When he was abruptly rushed to the NICU because of trouble breathing, I instantly knew love was a concept I had never grasped before. I would have done anything for my helpless baby. But a decade and three more squishy babies on my chest later, the real question of my love as a mother seems to be whether I am willing to try to see and understand him, and now his brothers, every single day.

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Even with their blobby, unstructured bodies and reputation for being “brainless,” some jellyfish have the capability of vision. Several species are known for their intricate eye systems.

Box jellyfish have two dozen eyes and a couple of those eyes can perceive color.  The way their eyes are arranged make them one of the few living things on earth to have 360 degree vision. They are able to uniquely see the world around them. 

Despite having the gift of sight, it is not known how much jellyfish can understand. They are not thought to be capable of love.

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My 34th birthday rolls in with a jumble of emotions. The past year has been extremely difficult. I’m really proud of myself for being resilient enough to claw my way through a life-altering health diagnosis. At the same time, I have yet to find healing or learn to manage the chronic condition well. I’m disappointed in myself for being a fragile mess all the time.

While trying to keep a sense of normalcy, I have tried to minimize my struggles. I am not sure anyone fully knows how lousy, sad, and weak I’ve been feeling. Pain, permanent, disfiguring body changes, and grief seem to have held me hostage for months.

My sisters stop by the evening of my birthday. They tell me the gifts in their arms have a theme and hand me several packages. I start with a large, rectangular box.

I peel back some tape and remove foam packing squares to reveal a clear cylinder on a base. A separate baggie in the box holds four small blobs. I read the directions and see it’s a lamp. You fill it with water, plug it in, and plop in the four jellyfish and watch them dance around as the light changes colors. 

A smaller box is the next thing to open. Inside is a jellyfish charm for my bracelet. It changes colors with skin temperature. 

It dawns on me. The theme is jellyfish. I’ve told no one about the lecture now rooted in my heart. (No one knows I spend time watching a potential cult leader’s video content.) 

I open the card last. Blinking back tears and swallowing hard, I scan the words again: “The jellyfish is a reminder that even the most delicate things can be strong.” 

My breath catches at the realization of being so deeply understood. It’s quickly clear my siblings have seen me this past year. And I feel like I’m closer to appreciating what it means to love.