Moving the Goalposts

“It doesn’t count if you’re already planning your defeat.” The words hung in the air for a moment surrounding me with doubt. I knew better than to confide in my mother. This was the very reason I had tried to keep her from finding my writing, but my attempts had failed. I hadn’t realized she still searched my name once a week and one of the sites I posted to had my real name attached. It hadn’t been anything special, but it had set her on the path of asking me for updates on my the work. With November being National Novel Writing Month, she was already questioning how progress was going.

“Well, Mom, that all depends on how you view defeat. I know the big goal is to get 50,000 words toward a new novel. And yeah, that had been my original plan, but I wasn’t expecting a sinus infection to wipe me out. I’m four days behind on my word count and my real job is about to pick up. I can’t guarantee I’m going to get 50,000 words written in 30 days. At this point, I’m changing my end goal to what is realistic.”

My mother sighed and I knew she wasn’t done. “Yes, but that’s defeatist. You won’t win if you already think you’re going to lose.”

I could feel my face growing red as we entered the coffee shop. It was dead, which was a blessing. This wasn’t a conversation I wanted other people to overhear. It was one thing for a parent to scold a child. It was a completely different thing for an adult child to be lectured by their mother, especially over something as stupid as this. “Mom, I appreciate your viewpoint, but this isn’t my main job. I don’t get paid to write. I don’t get paid time off to sit and play catch up. I got sick. That’s life. I’m readjusting for it,” I explained as calmly as I could as we walked to the counter.

“That’s not how I raised you, though. You opted to start this goal and now it is on you to finish it. It will take dedication, but you have time to catch up. You’re only four days behind. Unless you didn’t put in the ground work needed. You know, that would be like you.” The words cut into me like a knife and I recoiled as though I had been slapped. Seamlessly my mother stepped up to the counter to order a hazelnut coffee. It took me a moment before I followed. At 29 I should be used to this. I know my mother can be demanding and controlling, backhanded in her compliments. It’s exactly how I was raised. It’s why I moved three hours away from my hometown, seeking refuge away from her. 

I ordered my own drink, a pumpkin spice latte, paid, and then moved over to the table she had claimed. Before I could speak she shook her head. “There are times I wonder if you even want to achieve your goal of becoming a published author.”

That was the final straw. As our drinks arrived at the table I took in a steadying breath. We arrived in the same car, my car, and I couldn’t abandon my mother in a town she didn’t live. The shop wasn’t far from my house, but it was far enough to cause more problems. I lowered my voice and said, “Enough.” She stopped dead, holding her cup halfway to her mouth. My words were unexpected, but then, I couldn’t sit back and take anymore. Years of the subtle abuse were adding up. I was no longer the scared child worried about losing my privileges. I was an adult and this behavior was as far from okay as it got. 

I took a moment to sip my own drink, letting the anger I felt dissipate . This wasn’t something that could be done with a temper. “I love you, but this is my life. I moved the goalposts because I can still achieve the start of a first draft. I know me. I’ve spent months planning for this, but I also know this is the busy season at the job that pays the bills. I can’t jeopardize my income. Writing is a hobby. Someday, it would be incredible if I could pay my bills with it, but that’s a long shot, even if my writing is amazing. Right now, this is what I can do. It would be amazing if I could get your support, but if all you are going to do is continue to lecture me about what is wrong in my life in your eyes, then I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to pack your bags and leave. I don’t have time for your negativity anymore. I want a mother. I want a support system and that’s not something I’m getting from you.” I stopped and took another drink of the warm liquid. “The choice is yours, but I do love you.”

Her shocked expression wasn’t unexpected, but I could tell she was evaluating my words, weighing each one. She was trying to determine if I was serious, but there was nothing I was more serious about in this world. For long enough I had put her first, far above my own well being. It was time I prioritized my own mental health. No longer would I tolerate her condescension or her wrath. “I love you. I want what’s best for you. I want you to be able to achieve whatever it is you put your mind to. You committed to the goal of 50,000 words and I’m hard on you so you’ll achieve that goal. I never meant to hurt your feelings in the process.”

I nodded. I was sure she hadn’t meant any harm in her harsh words, but there was definitely harm in them. “I know, but the way you say some things can be rough. Accusing me of not putting in enough planning to catch up is unfair at best. I want this more than I’ve ever wanted anything else and to have you act like I don’t is soul-crushing. I got sick and so I re-evaluated how to best achieve to overreaching goal of creating a worthy first draft. That’s the real goal. So long as I can achieve that, it’s not a defeat. It’s a win.”