On gardening, bubble boy disease, and boys who walk you home

Today I caught up with our CEO on work, life, and things. The conversation began as it always begins between two people: with a purpose. But, here's one of the wonderful perks of working with the people I call my peers: we always end with a rewarding chat that leaves me either humbled, encouraged, or both. One thing led to another and the next thing you know, she explains parenthood to me in the simplest, most universal statement: "I'm not raising a daughter; I'm raising an orchid."

I've never taken care of an orchid, though I grew up in a house where my mom always tried her hand at cultivating plant life with her non-existent green thumb. Her many botched attempts always left me wondering how I was still alive. And now, living outside of the radius of my parents' home with my own (now dead) herb garden, the mere thought of ever potentially growing a human baby scares me. Suffice it to say, my boss' metaphor was short but effective.

I mentioned to her this man I met about a month ago — someone about my age, actually — who works at a lab in Palo Alto working towards a cure for what's known as "bubble boy disease," or severe combined immunodeficiency (SCID). The lack of functional lymphocytes leaves its genetically-dispositioned victims vulnerable to infectious diseases in everyday situations, and the unfortunate result is restriction to sterile environments. As Wikipedia puts it so well, "SCID is the result of an immune system so highly compromised that it is considered almost absent."

Without giving too much away, I shared with my boss the high-level progress this man told me that his lab had made so far. And, with such medical advancements where genetic disorders could potentially be cured, perhaps parents will eventually be able to stop comparing their kids to delicate flowers.

I left that meeting thinking about the fragility of human life and the very concrete reality that no two moments are ever the same in our lives. We truly never step in the same river twice. Do we all suffer from some form of "bubble boy disease," in one way or another? Have we each developed a shell since we were young, to protect us from the harsh environments in which we're raised? From our first encounters with disappointment, discrimination, bullying, and heartbreak, I can't imagine any one of us ever making it to our tenth birthdays without having first locked ourselves in the first version of an emotionally sterile bubble. Even worse? We thicken and harden the barriers as time goes on.

I know I feel it. I remember being a high schooler and getting coached by my parents almost weekly on how not to be a doormat to the other kids. I remember wondering why the values of kindness and generosity that my parents taught me when I was young conflicted with the consequences that came with, in fact, being kind and generous to others. It wasn't until my freshman year of college when a stranger saw a vulnerable, bubble-less girl and struck, leaving me damaged for a long time.

Forget the teasing and pubescent heartache from my high school years; this was the last straw that broke me. I remember a switch going off in the back of my mind, and I remember a full year and a half going by in a blur where I felt absolutely nothing. I remember trying to feel. A lot. I remember the uninitiated tears that would tell me that something human still lived within me, even if I couldn't willingly raise it from the dead. I remember going to church with my college roommate and best friend, hoping that perhaps divine powers could unshackle me.

But for years I stayed, locked in the tower I had built for myself.

Don't get me wrong. I was able to experience love and gratitude and awe. But it was like witnessing a sunset on a postcard, or feeling the butterflies of a first kiss through a movie. It just wasn't the real thing. I might as well not have been there.

As time goes on and human resiliency butts its head through my stubborn, self-made bubble I've constructed over time, I've found that my need for self-preservation ebbs and flows as others (and myself) prove to me that I can, indeed, open up. I dated a guy for a few years who helped heal my heart; then, like before, when we broke up I felt the bubble closing over my head once again.

Then tonight, I went on a date with this super sweet guy. It wasn't my first time jumping back on the proverbial bicycle since the last break up, and it wasn't our first date. Hell, it technically wasn't even a date (we just met up on my way home after a track workout). But, he offered to walk me home, and I let him.

For the first time in forever (cue the "Frozen" soundtrack), I felt the bubble's walls come down again. It wasn't on our first date, or our second date, or our third date. But it was on our walk home.

And I remembered thinking tonight, as he offered me his elbow (and his jacket), maybe we daughters aren't orchids anymore. Maybe we are more resilient than we previously believed. Maybe we grow up thinking and being told that we are orchids, so we hiss and hide from heartache and disappointment and hurt. I hope that my kids, boy or girl, will grow up believing that they are day lilies — brilliantly colored lilies that blossom and die within a day, with yet another lily blooming just as beautifully the next day. If that's the case, then let me die each time my heart breaks — I look forward to the beauty of blossoming the next time my heart is stolen (like it was tonight).

Photo Credit: Carol Von Canon, Flickr