Vachon Imagined

When I was in college, I taught a dance class—specifically ballet. It was one of the hardest jobs I have ever had. And I’ve been in the Army. I’ve slept in dirt. I’ve worked around trained killers. And yet, somehow, I was most terrified of toddlers in tutus.

Why?

Because they are unmanageable.

They do what they want, when they want. Sound familiar?

They’re sad. They cry. Someone hurt their feelings, and they’re going to tell me, you, the governor, President Trump, and anyone President Trump thinks is above him—which is no one. Clearly.

I would try to be mean, and it would backfire. Suddenly I had a sorority of little girls dressed in tutus, ready to use their ballet slippers as knives.

“You can’t talk to me that way.”

“That hurt my feelings.”

There would inevitably be one spokesperson for the entire class. She was in charge. The protector. The one who was going to make sure no one spoke to her, her friends, or their imaginary friends that way.

Then there was the little girl who sat in the corner and cried. Or sometimes she would simply stay there, curled into a ball of what I can only describe as frightened silence.

There was no making this girl angry.

Only sad.

I felt ill-equipped.

And I was.

Why?

Because I hadn’t learned how to be with my emotions. I had learned how to manage them.

And anyone who tries to manage emotions eventually discovers something strange: you can become what you are trying to manage.

Because managing emotions is not the same thing as accepting them.

Management is trying to manage toddlers.

Love is not letting the toddlers manage you.

That distinction matters.

To love someone who is angry, sad, frightened, or completely out of control does not mean handing them control of the room. It does not mean becoming angry because they are angry, becoming frightened because they are frightened, or becoming chaotic because they are chaotic.

It means staying present.

Maybe you join in. Maybe you don’t.

Maybe you sit beside them. Maybe you give them space.

But here’s the thing:

You’re still in charge of yourself.

You are the king in a room of toddlers.

And the king does not have to hate the toddlers.

He doesn’t have to silence them.

He doesn’t have to punish them for being toddlers.

He simply has to remain the king.

Because loving someone does not mean letting their emotions govern the room.

It means having enough courage to let their emotions exist without allowing those emotions to become your own.