Confessions of a 6 Mississippi Hugger
This weekend, I spent three magical days with two of the warmest women on the planet. I was brave because these girls are huggers. Long-holding, I'm-resting-in-a-sea-of-boobs-and-never-gonna-end-this-hug huggers.
My traveling companions, Kelle and Nici, have been friends with each other for almost 20 years. Meanwhile, I had never spoken aloud to either of them before. We planned the entire trip via Instagram DMs. The agenda: leaf peeping all the colorful foliage in upstate Michigan. Plus, commiserating about a life spent creating content and online community.
I was relieved to be the third wheel. It took the pressure off me to establish a rapport or keep conversations going.
I expected to enjoy observing their sweet relationship forged in the early days of Mom blogging. I did not expect to ache at witnessing their broad daylight snuggles. To feel grief at their ease at allowing their bodies to relax into physical sisterhood.
All around me were only green trees. Watching them casually spooning like a pile of puppies, I felt an immense longing that bordered on tears. Their unconscious pull to embrace when looking at a meme on their phone or to hold hands when wading into the lake spotlighted my reluctance for sustained touch. My intolerance for tactile intimacy was "flipped inside out"* for all to see.
*That was a term Kelle used multiple times to mean making her thinking and heart visible to others. We writer types must remember not to steal each others ideas without some kind of tiny credit.
To be clear, these gals were nothing but inclusive and inviting. I created my own isolation.
But they left no distance between their legs on the couch.
During our late night chats these girls stroked each other's hair and offered arm tickles. It was agitating and clarifying. I loved it. It was awkward. I wanted it to stop and to please never end.
“Come get in here!” Nici beckoned at 2:00 a.m. as we completed a powerful conversation that felt like months of therapy. I did not get in there. Instead I loomed over them, aching to be that feminine. That comfortable with being held. But in my feral mammal body, fear warned, “that behavior is not for me.”
Before this weekend, I identified as a hugger. Now, I see the vast wasteland between the perfunctory squeeze I give whenever greeting friends and the maternal bone-warming caresses these women offer. I am the feral kitten that backs away when you offer touch instead of tuna.
Is this the part of the newsletter where I blame my mom again? Like all of us, that woman simply gave what she got - a stiff and polite clasp near the shoulders on special occasions. Physical greetings were only offered after being separated for great swathes of time. Now, as an adult, I demand a hug from her when I fly across the country even though her body language indicates she'd rather stay seated and smile.
I have a gaping Mother Hunger - named from the book by Kelly McDaniel. It's an irritating longing to crawl into the laps of my women friends that I never act upon. I once worked up the nerve to ask my dear friend Anne to read to me while I put my head in her lap. She said, “I’d love to! Just say when”. I made sure to never "say when" or bring it up again.
As a 15-year-old Spicy One, I answered my skin to skin contact needs with romantic touch. Staying coupled with a boy of the season was a survival play. I made sure someone would always claim me and hold me. But when most of your receptive touch has been sexual - sweaty pubescent boys squeezing your butt and later, men moving on after the greatest of intimacies, touch gets twisted up a bit. We don't need a survey to tell us that unhugged teens are more vulnerable. My own history leaves me unclear where a gesture morphs from motherly to romantic. Or even erotic.
Grab your kiddo and initiate a hug every day. Consent is obviously best but for the super prickly ones, keep trying and offering and gushing about how good it feels to squeeze them. How easy it is to love them. They may squirm away but the sensory feedback of physically wrenching free from a hug will help all to regulate. As long as you don't take the rejection personally.
At an outdoor concert this summer, Tyler Childers played my daughter’s favorite song All Your’n. She squealed with excitement, her left arm carelessly draped over my shoulder. I knew I was supposed to return the embrace, but how exactly? If only I could Google it. I matched her body posture and swung my right arm across her back and right shoulder. We swayed and sang. I looked straight ahead, breath held as my 19-year-old shouted the words into the night. I loved it. It was awkward. I wanted it to stop and to please never end. Walking back to the car, she complained, “you didn't look at me the entire song.” Dang! I didn't know that was also part of the correct touch recipe. (Click here for help to not take your teen’s frustration personally).
My heritage of neglect means I sabotage hugs when I do get them. I’ve demanded 6-second hugs from my family ever since the internet claimed that's how long it takes to release the oxytocin and stress relieving benefits of touch.
I do something with my kids and husband that I am not proud of. This is your parent coach saying: DO NOT DO THIS AT HOME. After the count of six, or when I’m ready for the hug to end, I playfully poke my pointer finger up into their armpits to release the hug. It’s a family game now. They try to hold onto me a little longer and I discover their pain tolerance for my finger-needling. Just today, I asked for a hug from my strapping teen boy headed out the door to school. He embraced me and then my body began to sound alarms. I loved it. It was awkward. I wanted it to stop and to never end. I began to ready my fingers but he let go and headed to school.
I wonder if my kids will be able to give long hugs. Do they know that this is Mom's issue. Or will they surmise that something about them is not worthy of long, lazy hugs. I certainly hope they don't believe themselves to be unhuggable. I have felt that wound.
A friend placed her hand lovingly across mine at lunch today. It quickly became an inflammation point in my body. Every cell of my brain is hyper aware that there is touch happening! A tingling burning kicks in at the connection point. An obvious foreign matter breaching my skin’s barrier. So I pulled the hand away and who knows what rejecting message was communicated. (I'm curious if my awareness of the foreign energy would subside with repeated exposures.)
Some young Spicy Ones miss the mark in their attempts to show affection and are shamed or even punished for it. The day in fifth grade when I heard about the existence of French kissing, I came straight home and tried it on my mother. She was horrified. She recoiled and said something akin to “That’s disgusting”. Once again, the thought “something is wrong with this child” likely flitted across her consciousness.
There are so many reasons not to want hugs: no sisters, no parental touch, the patriarchy sexualizing feminine touch, and (not yet explored here) being neurodivergent. Some of us might simply not need the touch that helps typical people recover from stress and raise their immunity. But I think we all need it.
I will end this by declaring that you and I are a soul with a body. How do we allow our body to be in our relationships as much as our brain?
I can’t wait to hear your thoughts! Will you pop over to Instagram and share your comments on this post dedicated to today’s newsletter?
Thanks for letting me share.
Mary