Welcome to The Moth.
I'm Chloe Salmon.
Some conversations have the potential to be terrifying.
Whether it's telling a partner you need to break up, telling your parents where that dent in the car door really came from, or even telling a friend that getting bangs would, in fact, be a catastrophic decision for them.
The thought of having a tough talk can inspire an almost physical dread.
You feel in your throat, in your heart, your stomach.
In this episode, two stories of having the hard conversations and how nerve-wracking and rewarding they can be.
First up is Annie Wyborg, who told this story at a Twin Cities Grand Slam, where the theme was comfort zone.
Here's Annie, live at the Moth.
I could tell that my mom was really nervous that afternoon all those years ago.
It was just her and I sitting in the living room, but she jumped up and closed all the curtains.
I guess on the off chance that a neighbor who could lip read would walk by and know that my mom was having the talk with her daughter.
And she was clutching a brochure from the church, a guideline on how to talk to your child about sex, more than likely written by someone who had never had a child or sex.
And I was anxious to get the scoop.
I had my theories.
But when mom got down to it, tab A into slot B, I didn't see that coming.
And in an attempt to console me, mom assured me that it's the woman that takes the lead, and she signals readiness by wearing perfume.
Probably spritzing yourself from a little bottle of no headache tonight, honey.
But the one thing my mom didn't cover in that talk was anything about birth control.
And so when it was time for me years later to have that talk with my daughter I made sure that was on the agenda.
And a year or two after I had that talk with my daughter, I received a phone call one afternoon from the father of a young man my daughter was dating.
They were both 15.
And this dad said that he was sure that our kids were having a physical relationship.
And while I didn't love hearing that word, that news, the...
Alarm fire that was starting in my head is, what are they doing to prevent pregnancy?
And I knew that my daughter wouldn't just tell me that was not how she rolled.
I would have to find a way to get her out of her comfort zone.
So I came up with a plan.
An hour later, I picked her up from the mall, and we drove in silence, but rather than going home, I kept driving out into the country, and my daughter was immediately nervous.
What is happening?
And I told her I could understand she probably didn't want to talk to me about birth control, but it was critical that she did and that I would drive as long and as far as it would take until we could have that conversation.
And my daughter turned pale, but she clammed up as I knew that she would.
And now we're driving past fields and barns, and eventually we come to the first town.
And I remember to tell her then that I do have a full tank of gas.
And it's almost as if I could hear that little golf pencil in her mind crossing out the line item, jump out at gas station, call a friend.
But she remained silent.
And the stress, the tension in that car was growing with each mile.
Eventually, we get to the second town.
And I say, oh, hey, by the way, I packed an overnight bag for us.
It's in the trunk.
I swear I heard a little whimper escape from her at that point, but she remained resolute.
And now with every mile and every minute,
I was, my heart was beating harder and harder.
My plan was backfiring.
And by the time we approached that third town, we had been on the road for almost an hour.
And I decided it was time to bring the big guns out.
And so though we were still several hundred miles from the border, I said, looks like we'll be sleeping in South Dakota tonight.
And that was it for her.
She said, I'll talk.
Let's talk.
So I turned around in a farmer's driveway and pulled over as soon as I could.
She told me that she had wanted to talk to me,
For these past two weeks, she did want some help, but she could not find a way to start that conversation.
And so together we came up with a better plan than what had been in place.
Now, my daughter and I, we didn't talk about that drive for many years, but from time to time I wondered if I had done the right thing.
It was as if a jury had assembled in my mind, and I was continually presenting the case for the defense that the stakes had been high and that time was of the essence, but the jury remained deadlocked.
Until that is the day that my daughter told me in a casual conversation that when she's with friends and the subject of mothers comes up, she will sometimes say, here's something my mom did once.
And...
I was watching her as she was talking, and while her words were neutral, the look on her face was not.
And that's when I knew that the defense could finally rest.
Thank you.
That was Annie Wyborg.
She retired after working decades in the telecommunications industry.
She loves to get up early in the dark, drink coffee, read, journal, and meditate while the sky gradually lightens.
The birds and the bees is a classically scary talk to have.
Another doozy?
Navigating moving in with a partner.
When my boyfriend and I were getting ready to cohabitate, I had an existential crisis.
You don't know me, but this is classic me.
Did this mean he was expecting us to spend all of our time together?
Would he be offended if I wanted to sit alone in another room sometimes?
Would I have to invite him to come every time I left the house?
Clearly, alone time is important to me, but I felt like this was kind of a bummer thing to say to my loving boyfriend.
So I let it build up.
For months.
Until one day, shortly before the move, I couldn't take it anymore.
I turned to him and I said, I would very much like to not spend every moment together, and it doesn't mean I don't love you, but my God, I need to be alone sometimes.
Extra points for a chill delivery.
He looked at me with the slightly dazed expression of someone who had been caught in a freak thunderstorm and said, I mean, yeah, me too.
I'm happy to report that on the other side of that scary, for me, conversation, we've been existing in different rooms of our apartment sometimes when we feel like it for 12 years and counting now.
Up next, a story about the importance of talking through the hard stuff.
Back in a moment.
Welcome back.
Our next story is from Wendy Cuellar, who told it at an Asheville Story Slam where the theme was endings.
Here's Wendy, live at the Moth.
Michael saved all my notes in a shoebox underneath his bed.
And he knew just where to hit my locker so that when it got stuck, it would pop open and hit the other locker right beside it.
And sometimes late at night when I couldn't sleep, I would call him and we would lay the receiver on the pillow beside our head and just listen to each other breathe.
We were 13.
We were best friends.
He knew all my secrets.
And that's why on Tuesday in October, when he didn't show up at school, I was kind of surprised because I thought I would know why.
And Nurse Pike came down and got me and walked me down to her office.
And I sat on a little plastic rolly stool.
And she told me that Michael had actually died the night before.
And I remember touching my face and thinking, and actually saying out loud, I'm not crying.
And she said, that's because you're in shock, and shock is when the truth hasn't hit your heart yet.
And she said, you'll cry, but it will be later, and right now you need to go home.
And so she called my mom and my mom came and picked me up.
And I got in the car and my mom had been crying and I got in the car and she squeezed my hand and she looked at me and she shook her head.
And we rode home in silence.
And Nurse Pike was right.
I cried when I got home and I cried for the days and weeks
Following that event.
And I would write long angsty poems in my English journal about death and funerals and coffins and ghosts, trying to kind of understand what had happened to Michael.
And every week I would get the writings back with a little red check in the side of the paper, no comment.
Science was the hardest class because Michael and I would sit in the back of the room together and I would kind of weep now that he wasn't there and the science teacher pulled me out and she said, look, you gotta get yourself together.
She said, if you don't stop crying, I'm gonna send you down to the school counselor.
Well, I didn't know what a school counselor was or who it was, but it sounded like punishment to me.
So I stopped crying at school and I saved my tears for when I got home and I would turn my stereo up to number 10 and the walls would vibrate and the door would shake and I would cry loud, sad words.
And no one ever knocked on the door to find out why.
And sometimes late at night, I would take the phone and just put it on the pillow and just listen to the dial tone.
Fast forward 15 years.
I'm almost done with my master's, and I am so excited because I've got a job.
And believe it or not, I'm a school counselor.
And I've got my first client and he's right outside that door and I've got the referral sheet and I am psyched, I'm gonna help somebody, right?
And I look at his name and it says, the teacher has written,
Doesn't raise his hand, doesn't participate in class, doesn't turn in homework, doesn't have any friends.
Poor handwriting.
We think he has a learning disability.
And down at the bottom, there's a little asterisk and an arrow.
And I turn the piece of paper over, and on the back, the teacher has written, his mother and brother died last year.
That might have something to do with it.
And before I can even process the information, the knock is on the door and the door is open and there he is.
And he comes into my office and he throws himself down in the chair and he's like this.
And I just see the back of his head.
And he's looking out the window.
And suddenly, anything that I learned in my master's program is out the window.
I can't remember anything to say.
So I say, so how's sixth grade?
Nothing.
Back of the head.
So then I say, got any friends?
Nothing.
Back of the head.
What do you do for fun?
Nothing.
Back of the head.
And now I'm starting to think maybe I need to go ask for help because I'm, you know, thinking about all that I've learned and they didn't really cover what you do in this.
And suddenly he turns around and he leans forward and he's about 12 inches away from me.
And I can feel his breath on my cheeks as he says, I watched my mother and brother drowned in the river, but I guess you don't want to talk about that, do you?
And my first thought was, no, I really don't want to talk about that.
And then I thought, my God, the sound of silence must be deafening for him.
And I thought,
What I held on for 15 years that was such an ending for me as a young person was going to be a beginning for this kid maybe.
And if I was lucky, it was also going to be a beginning for that school counselor sitting beside him.
So I looked at him and I said, yeah, actually I do want to talk about that.
Thank you.
That was Wendy Cuellar.
Wendy lives in the mountains of Western North Carolina with her spouse and a faithful rescue pup.
She comes from a long line of storytellers and hopes her daughter carries that lineage forward.
Listening deeply, speaking bravely, and knowing when silence tells the best story.
That brings us to the end of our episode.
Thank you to our storytellers for sharing with us and to you for listening.
And maybe use these stories as inspiration to say thank you to all of the counselors, teachers, friends, strangers, and loved ones who show up ready to have the tough conversations.
And from all of us here at The Moth, we hope your hard talks lead to something beautiful.
Chloe Salmon is a director at The Moth.
Her favorite Moth moments come on show days when the cardio is done, the house lights go down, and the magic settles in.
Annie Wyborg's story was coached by Sarah Austin Janess.
This episode of the Moth Podcast was produced by Sarah Austin Janess, Sarah Jane Johnson, and me, Mark Sollinger.
The rest of the Moth's leadership team includes Gina Duncan, Christina Norman, Marina Cloutier, Jennifer Hickson, Jordan Cardinale, Caledonia Cairns,
Kate Tellers, Suzanne Rust, and Patricia Ureña.
The Moth Podcast is presented by Odyssey.
Special thanks to their executive producer, Leah Reese Dennis.
All moth stories are true, as remembered by their storytellers.
For more about our podcast, information on pitching your own story, and everything else, go to our website, themoth.org.
