For a while, I grew up with an extended family. There were aunts, uncles, grandparents, cousins, and half-siblings. The adults would cook, drink, and tell tales from their childhood. The kids were always playing games outside or on the computer, and getting spoiled by our grandparents. There were many stories, and my favorites were about my parents before they had me. I loved to learn about where they traveled and went to school, and how much like them my sister and I were.
Gradually, the weekends spent hosting and visiting became less frequent. My sister and I started playing sports and music, and hanging out with friends. We traveled to tournaments, recitals, and sleepovers instead of cookouts, birthdays, and impromptu get togethers. From junior-high on, we were a nuclear family, seeing relatives just a few times a year for major holidays. Every now and then, I would hear about how a relative recently moved, got married, went to college, or died.
Time passed. The relatives I used to watch in wonderment lived lives. They've grown up, grown old, grown apart. After graduating college and starting to work, I thought about what I want my family life to be. I want to have close ties, and I want my future children to grow up with lots of loving relatives around them. The more I reflected on my young adulthood, the more I yearned for the connections I felt as a child.
I didn't know where to start, but I got lucky. One uncle recently asked me if I would be open to visiting him, and I said yes. The plan developed into a two-week adventure to Panamá. My aunt grew up there, so she and I flew together, visiting her family and friends throughout our stay. I got immersed in a new culture, practiced Spanish, and connected with my aunt. Almost every day included a long drive to a relative's home, where I participated in the familial connection I used to feel. We cooked together, admired the lush landscape, and shared life stories.
Nobody on my aunt's side of the family knew who I was until she introduced me as her sobrino (nephew). I was humbled by how openly her family embraced me. They showed me where different fruits and vegetables grow, and how to cook them, or make them into drinks. They patiently listened as I stumbled through sentences, decoding what I was trying to say and responding with a pace and vocabulary I could grasp. They hugged and kissed me. I felt so much love.
It was the rainy season in Panamá, and one drizzly afternoon I picked The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People from my aunt's bookshelf. I had read other books about shaping our habits by Timothy Ferris and James Clear, but I had never read one of the books that they referenced as inspiration. In Part 3 of 7 Habits, Stephen Covey presents and discusses the concept of an Emotional Bank Account, where we can make deposits and withdrawals that strengthen or weaken our relationships. If we don't keep in touch, use discouraging language, or refuse to trust others, we make withdrawals from our account with that person. Conversely, if we really listen, understand, and share with others, we can make deposits that deepen our bonds.
Many of us know intuitively that our relationships require effort, but picturing relationships in this way helped me understand why and how some of my relationships have bloomed, while others have begun to whither, and what I can do about it. The 7 Habits presented a framework for reviving the bonds that I value, and I started taking note of the opportunities I had to make deposits, however small, into the relationships I hold dear in my personal and professional life.
If there are relationships from your past that feel beyond repair, or if you feel distant from the people you love, I invite you to read this book. My uncle was the person brave enough to re-initiate our relationship, and it made me feel a deep sense of love. You can be that person.
