Ever since high school, my friends have referred to me as “Mom.” For some, it started when I was the stage manager of our theater program when keeping track of them was part of my job. For others, it came from my tendency to make plans for all of us, or my intense need to take group pictures, or my habit of checking in on everyone and avoiding crazy, potentially risky scenarios myself.
I’d like to think that in college I’ve been able to let my hair down a bit. I go out with my friends and have fun, and I do my best not to manage everyone. I still check in with them and I still make sure we have group pictures, but I’ve made a conscious effort to let go of the responsibility I felt for my friends’ well-being.
All the same, the nickname has stuck. From stage managing my college’s last two theater productions to making sure my friends make it home safe on a Saturday night, I’m still “Mom.”
When it made its first reappearance, I told people not to call me that. I’m not a mom. I go out; I dance at parties; I do silly, crazy, weird things every now and then. But still, I like to be sure everyone’s safe, that we have some group photos and that my homework gets done. I’ve worked pretty hard to squelch my managerial tendencies—we’re all “adults” who can make our own choices, after all—but I can’t get rid of my desire to make sure my friends are safe and happy.
Since I’ve been abroad thus far this semester, I’ve realized a resurgence of these habits of mine. I would become a bit anxious when people in the group began to complain like I was supposed to do something to ensure their happiness. I felt wrong about leaving our assigned meeting place without two members of the group, even though they were 45 minutes late and they knew where our next destination was. I felt guilty about leaving two other peers to find their own way to the bus stop because my friend and I wanted to arrive early to be sure we didn’t miss the bus.
In all of those instances, I found myself wondering why I do this. Of course, caring for your friends and helping them out by sharing useful advice or checking in on them are all useful and important things. We should all look out for one another—but that’s where it ends.
I have now begun to remind myself that I am not personally responsible for the well-being of others. None of us are. We should be respectful of them and helpful when we can be, but if two others miss a bus because they left later than you, then you did the right thing for yourself in letting them wait without you, and it’s their own problem that they missed the bus.
For me, that’s exactly the issue: “It’s their own problem.” At this point in our travels abroad, people know how this works. They know to be on time; they know not to change plans once they’ve been agreed on, and they know they’re responsible for getting from place to place. That’s what’s so essential to remind yourself of in those moments. These peers of mine know how to act like real people just as much as I do (it’s a work in progress), so I can’t feel responsible for their mistakes, be it a missed bus or forgetting an umbrella. I can empathize, help them and offer any of my applicable knowledge, but I can’t internalize it as a failing on my part.
After all, I’m only a student, too, and I’m really not their mom.
