by Koren Allen

Created on: November 17, 2008

"I'm not going to feel sorry for you."

There was no cruelty in her voice, no hatred in her eyes. Her gaze was level, steady, absolutely honest - with the wisdom that can only be earned by living hard. She was not judging me; she was simply stating a fact.

Tonja was my supervisor. She was the only black person in a law office full of politely privileged whites. She was a single mother who had pulled herself up from the welfare roles, put herself through college and earned a respected position as a supervising paralegal. She was a diplomat; the perfect blend of humility and class, intellect and warmth. She was one of my first female mentors, and there was nothing about her that I didn't admire.

So the comment felt like a slap in the face. I was confiding in her, pouring my heart out about the difficulties of my divorce and caring for my disabled child. I was worn out, weak, and full-body wallowing in the cruel hardships of my life. She listened indulgently for a while, watching me calmly, letting me get it all out. Then she simply said, "I'm not going to feel sorry for you."

Obviously I was taken aback, shocked into silence. This was not the reaction I wanted, not the words I expected. During this season of my life, everyone around me was holding my hand and coddling me. I had survived something fairly traumatic and did not yet have my feet under me. I was visibly fragile and my demeanor seemed to evoke the protective instincts of everyone in my life. Everyone except Tonja.

Still looking at me with that unwavering honesty, she said, "Sure, you're life is hard. You have to deal with some challenges that most of us never will. But no one is going to do it for you. You are the only one who can fix it."

For a little while I was hurt. It took a week or two for the truth of her message to permeate through the layers of crippling self-pity I had wrapped myself in. It took much longer for me to see that what she did that day was ultimately an act of love and underlying faith in me; a simple, powerful gift.

I haven't seen Tonja in years but she continues to guide me. At every point in my life when I've been tempted to jump back into the immobility of self-pity, to use my victim hood as an excuse to avoid the toughest of choices, Tonja's words guide me back into forward motion. She reminds me that sometimes, a well-worded kick in the pants is the most valuable gift of all.

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