After George Michael died, many sources revealed his bountiful charitable giving; the only condition for much of his generosity was anonymity. Articles also mentioned his struggle with depression. I read aloud some examples of his philanthropy and was surprised to see G get really upset. “He didn’t want people to know about it. Why can’t they respect his wishes?” Her face grew red and her eyes glossed as she spoke. I started to respond, but she interrupted with one of her boilerplate phrases, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

I love learning what people have done with their lives, their efforts to reach heights and battle lows. It makes me think of my late mother who had many hidden demons including depression yet was a woman whose acts of kindness were legendary, albeit on a smaller scale than George Michael. Did either of them eradicate the pain inside by doing good deeds for others? I know my mother did not. But it was likely the best fix she could find.

Until recently I had not made the connection that I often do something similar. One way I counter my blues is by reaching out to others: setting up coffee groups for fellow parents, giving small donations, helping someone out, or trying to paying it forward. Not knowing the response of the recipient (or hiding my motivation) lifts the weight I’m carrying; I can hope that I helped someone, enabled connection, or ignited joy just a little bit.

One day last spring when my heart was split in two worrying about G, I was in line at the grocery store in front of a mom with two children, just barely holding it together. The mother tried to manage her baby while her daughter reached for a coloring book at eye level on the stand beside her. Please could we get this? She asked, explaining when she would use it. The mother said no. I caught her eye and whispered, “Could I get it for her? It’s okay if you say no. Either way, up to you.” She thought for a moment, looked at her little girl, smiled and nodded to me. They both thanked me. I wanted to disappear. I also wanted to say enjoy this while you can—like many mothers once said to me. But instead I took a deep breath, held in my tears, and walked away.

These reflections remind me of my seventh birthday, having tea at the Plaza Hotel with my mother and father. A well-dressed older gentleman started chatting with the three of us. In the course of conversation, he asked my favorite animal and then he left. Not long thereafter he returned, and to my surprise, gave me a large box from FAO Schwartz. “They didn’t have a lion but they did have this,” he said, and then he handed me a second much smaller box, “this is for your mom to keep for when you grow up.” We never saw him again. Was he, too, trying to fill some loss or hurt inside? Of course, I only thought of my great luck in meeting him, but over the years I have reflected on his actions from multiple perspectives, not to mention the serendipity of the gifts themselves: a large Steiff tiger (my college mascot) and a bottle of Joy perfume (my middle name).

Acts of kindness and generosity benefit whom most? I wonder.

Last week G lied to me. I could trace the steps and even conjure the reasons why. It wasn’t an egregious crime. She wanted to be finished with her term work, and one essay remained. I would not have extended her curfew to break/weekend timing if I had known it was not at least at draft stage, as she intimated. Of course it all came to a head eventually when she said (at midnight), “Don’t be mad, but I don’t like my topic, I’m going to start again. I’ll be up late.”

“You didn’t have a draft before, did you?” She shook her head.

As I lay in bed listening to her wrestling with Dante and Euripides, I thought about consequences, discipline, punishment. How to make a point while recognizing that what I care about most is the successful development of her character. I want her to take what she learns here with her on the road of life, not see leaving this house as an escape from a prison whose rules she no longer needs to obey.

This is how I arrived at the idea of acts of service. Later I told her she needed to do one thing for me, one for her grandparents, and one for her community.

Honestly, just like everything else right now, I’m not sure how any of it went, or if much is “getting through” at this point. I don’t get the sense that grounding works. I was never grounded; I don’t really understand it.

Regardless of whether the spirit of this exercise reaches G or not, I like the idea of acts of service because at least someone will benefit from her actions. The next day, encouraged by Michael Riera (Uncommon Sense for Parents with Teenagers), I asked G what she thought of my approach.

“It’s cheesy,” she answered, not unkindly, “just like you asking me what I think. I know what I did and why I did it. No discipline really connects to it, although you could cut my allowance.”

It feels like all I do is fumble. I’m in a near-constant state of uncertainty (if not anxiety) that I’m not doing this right. Will I ever find my sea legs in this chapter of parenting? Or is that part of the point? Thus far, there seems to be no getting it right, no knowing. There is only holding on and letting go. An act of faith, in its own odd way, an act of love.

Have you found a consequence/discipline style that works for you? What would you have done under the circumstances? Feel free to comment below or send me an email through the contact page to join our secret FB discussion group.