Need Hug

a lesson from a toddler

Welcome to another installment of The Bittersweet, where I share my search for a richer perspective on the Bittersweet moments that make up modern life.

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On Thursdays, I get my 2 ½ year-old daughter all to myself. We pretend to be monsters, play Play-Doh, and color. Sometimes we do all three before one episode of The Mickey Mouse Clubhouse is over.

The other day, she was playing in her bedroom while I was in the kitchen fixing lunch. I heard her run from her room saying, “Need hug. Need hug. Need hug.” She comes out of the hall, a huge smile on her face, and grabs my leg. I look down and smile, and she smiles back up at me, and it’s the best thing.

It had me wondering, when do we outgrow narrating our actions and needs?

I watch my daughter play quietly as she talks to her toys,

“Bunny, stay right here.”

“Dog wants to sleep.”

Then, she says, “I want a tutu.” And as if she suddenly remembered an important deadline, she stands and runs to her room, repeating, “I want a tutu,” over and over until she comes back, tutu in hand. “Mommy puts it on?”

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I watch her strain to reach the light switch. She says, "I turn light on.”

“Do you need help?” I ask.

“No! I'm gonna do it,” and she bats my hand away.

She stretches her tiny fingers up as far as they go, balancing on the tippiest of tippy toes. “I turn light on. I turn light on. I turn light on,” until she finally hits the switch and the light comes on. Her face lights up in victory.

I guess she'll repeat it less as she grows taller, and eventually not at all because it will become one of those things she does without thinking, without needing help, without needing recognition.

Perhaps that's when it happens: we stop narrating our lives because we think don't need anything from anyone else. But what if we didn't?

What if a man sitting in a coffee shop alone repeated, “Need hug. Need hug,” over and over until someone hugged him? What if the woman in Target said, “I can't, I can't, I can't,” until someone gave her a high five and said, “You got this, mama?” What if the 22-year-old who spends too much time playing video games and in chat rooms said, “Need help,” while in class, at the grocery store, or at the dinner table with his family, again and again, until someone came to his aid and convinced him that there was another way?

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A very ominous thing happened to me while scrolling Instagram the day after Charlie Kirk's murder. I saw a post from Gavin Newsom condemning political violence. I quickly clicked away from the comment section because it was filled with all you’d expect from people who vehemently disagree with Kirk’s ideology. The rest of the afternoon, I was served with post after post about Melissa Hortman, the Minnesota lawmaker, who was assassinated in her home back in June. Some of these posts were from back then, some were new and from strange accounts. It was as if the algorithm was saying to me, “Remember when it was someone on your team?”

I don't know if those accounts were bots or real people. I don't know if they are Americans or from a random country halfway across the world. Same with the people in Newsom’s comment section.

I deleted my Facebook account after the fires in LA. I saw how nasty people could get online. I’m pretty close to deleting Instagram, but I suspect it knows because it’s back to serving me my favorite comedians and book people, though it throws in the rage bait now and then to see if I’ll bite. I’m not proud of it, but sometimes the algorithm wins.

I’m scared of a future where the political violence of one side justifies the political violence of the other. I’ve been distracted and a bit lost. “My side,” says it's the guns, and I agree, but it’s also the phones. I guess what I’m saying is,

“Need help.”

“Need hug.”

Because I can’t get through this alone.

This is where I am today. Thank you for listening.

In an era where you have access to every word ever written, I’m so grateful you’ve chosen to read mine.