When I was a youngster, I spent a lot of time worrying about things I couldn't control.
I worried about my height. I worried about my weight. I worried that I wasn't growing as fast as the other boys. Most of all, I worried about facial hair—or rather, the lack of it.
While my friends were beginning to grow mustaches and beards, my face remained covered with little more than peach fuzz. To a teenager, that seemed like a major problem.
During those years, my brother and I had newspaper routes. My parents were divorced, and my father insisted that we keep those jobs. I delivered papers before sunrise, and my brother handled the afternoon route.
On cold winter mornings, when the alarm clock seemed especially cruel, I would call my mother and ask if she could help me with the route.
Without complaint, she would meet me in the darkness.
While I tossed newspapers onto porches, Mom would slowly drive the route. When we finished, she would take me back to her house for breakfast.
I was always trying to gain weight, so breakfast was a serious affair. Eggs, toast, bacon, and often a high-calorie nutritional drink that Mom hoped would help me fill out.
Those mornings became more than breakfast. They became conversations.
One morning, I complained about not having facial hair.
"All my friends are growing beards and mustaches," I told her. "Why don't I have any?"
Mom smiled and began telling a story.
She said that when my father was a young man, he desperately wanted a beard and mustache. Back then, many people believed that shaving frequently made facial hair grow faster. So my father shaved every day.
According to Mom, it worked a little too well.
His beard grew so fast that eventually he had to shave twice a day if they were going out in the evening.
Then she offered a perspective I had never considered.
"Most men spend a good part of their lives shaving," she said. "Many have to do it every day. Some even shave twice a day. And trust me, prickly whiskers aren't always appreciated by the women in their lives."
I laughed.
For the first time, I thought about facial hair from a different angle.
Maybe not having to shave wasn't such a terrible thing after all.
Over time, I stopped worrying about it.
The funny thing is that Mom was right.
Years passed. My friends grew thick beards. Some had to shave every day. Others battled razor bumps and skin irritation.
Meanwhile, my facial hair remained relatively light.
I never had to spend much time shaving. I rarely dealt with ingrown hairs. More than once, people complimented me on looking younger than my age.
What I once viewed as a disadvantage turned out to have a few advantages of its own.
Looking back, I realize that Mom wasn't really teaching me about shaving.
She was teaching me about perspective.
She was teaching me that we spend too much time wishing we were different.
She was teaching me to appreciate what I had instead of obsessing over what I lacked.
Most importantly, she was teaching me to accept myself.
Years later, I still think about those cold mornings, those newspaper routes, and those breakfasts shared with my mother.
The lesson stayed with me far longer than any concern about facial hair ever did.
Sometimes the things we wish were different about ourselves turn out to be perfectly fine just the way they are.
A Question to Consider
What lesson did your mother teach you that you didn't fully appreciate until years later?