JEFFERSON FISHER: I’m a bit like a shepherd for my family. When I’m not helping momma fix dinners or changing diapers, I help my brothers and sister. I read to them, I play with them, make up games for them. I eat fake food from Sarah’s play kitchen. I interpret Jonathan’s words for my parents. Task after task, it becomes second nature to be of service to my family. 

ROHAN GUNATILLAKE: Lawyer and master communicator, Jefferson Fisher, loves taking care of other people. Again and again, he puts their wants and needs ahead of his own. In his story this week, Jefferson discovers the power of showing up for himself. And when he does, he’s given the chance to more fully show up for others. 

In this series, we combine immersive first-person stories, breathtaking music, and mindfulness prompts, so that we may see our lives reflected back to us in other people’s stories. And that can lead to improvements in our own inner lives.

From WaitWhat, this is Meditative Story. I’m Rohan, and I’ll be your guide.

The body relaxed. The body breathing. Your senses open, your mind open, meeting the world.

FISHER: My hands and knees dig into the cream-colored carpet of our living room floor. I can feel I’m starting to get carpet burn, but I don’t mind. 

I’m 12 years old, and my sister Sarah and brother Jonathan cling onto my back for dear life. She’s 7, he’s 5. And I’m on all fours, huffing and grunting like a bull. I twist and turn and shake my shoulders to buck them off. As I rear up, they tumble down and laugh so hard they can barely breathe. 

“Again, Bubba. Again!” they shout. Where I live in the South, it’s common for the oldest sibling of the family to be called Bubba. I smile as Jonathan climbs onto my back again. I’m careful not to trample my youngest brother Jacob, while he crawls around next to the family stash of Disney VHSes. 

We always play on the floor — me and my 3 siblings. We’re not really allowed to be up on Dad’s blue leather La-Z-Boy, with all the yellow notepads and case files stacked next to it. Can’t do anything on the floral couch across the room either. That’s for guests. And Momma is too worried about stains.

My dad’s an attorney. All the men in my family are attorneys. It goes back a long, long time. He works long hours, sometimes even weekends. My mom frequently tutors high school students in math at our dining room table. But tonight, it’s Friday evening, and my parents are at another work event. As the oldest, it’s my responsibility to watch the kids. Keep them entertained. Keep them fed and safe. Even though I’m only a few years older.

Down on the ground, I see the red digital clock blinking clearly on the VCR — 6:02pm. Well, time to make everybody dinner. I scoop up Jacob in my arms. 

Whenever I make dinner, I put on the personality of Chef Bubbá. “Chef Bubbá will now prepare this evening’s meal,” I declare in the voice of the cook from The Little Mermaid.

In the kitchen, I grab bread and peanut butter from the pantry, jelly from the fridge. I quickly make three peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I stick individual Cheetos into the top of each one to make them ‘fancy’. “Here you go madame. Monsieur.” I present the sandwiches to Sarah and Jonathan like it’s a delicacy. I mix Jacob’s bottle and feed him. I take a couple bites of my own sandwich. I blink and it’s time to change Jacob’s diaper, run baths, brush teeth and get everybody ready for bed. After songs and prayers are over, I hear Jacob rustling in his bed. I peek in to see him standing up, looking at me with his bottom lip curled as if he’s about to cry. My heart can’t take it. “Okay,” I say, “Let’s go rock a little more.”

I’m a bit like a shepherd for my family. When I’m not helping momma fix dinners or changing diapers, I help my brothers and sister. I read to them, I play with them, make up games for them. I eat fake food from Sarah’s play kitchen. I interpret Jonathan’s words for my parents. Sometimes they have trouble understanding him because he struggles saying his consonants. Task after task, it becomes second nature to be of service to my family. And that carries over to how I am with my friends. And really…anybody.

The day Sarah is born, my dad tells me, “This is your sister. She might be our child, but she is also yours. She’s your responsibility.” I take his words seriously. I feel them…daily. I don’t feel slighted. I love it. I really do. These are my kids. I make them feel smart and I make them feel confident.  

Maybe I’ll be an attorney someday like my dad. Maybe I’ll have things in my own life to worry about. But right now, I’m a big brother. I’m Bubba. I find a lot of satisfaction in that. And I’d do anything for them.  

I slowly pull out the new Playstation game from the box. NBA Street. It has a cartoon of basketball players on the cover and a logo that looks like graffiti on a brick wall. My friend Matt and I have been talking about this game for months, and finally, his dad has rented it from Blockbuster. Now Matt and I get to have pizza, Dr. Pepper, and a night of playing as late as we want.

Matt’s house is so different from mine. More disorganized. But also more relaxed. His parents are divorced, so the energy here is just different. Like there are no rules. As long as we’re safe, no one really seems to care what we do.

We take our seats on the black leather couch. There’s a poster of a red Ferrari on the wall. As we start playing, Matt’s little brother Nick walks in. He’s a few years younger than us, about my brother’s age. Nick sees the Playstation and his eyes go wide. I know that look. “Can I play?” he asks. 

Matt doesn’t hesitate. “No,” he says flatly. “You’re not playing. Leave.” 

I sit back and do a double take. Stunned. I think to myself, wait, you can say that? You can just say ‘no’ to letting him play?  

I cannot count the hours I’ve played games with my siblings. Not just video games, not just board games, I invent games. I sit on my knees in the hallway outside my parents room while they throw soft nerf balls at me. Every time they hit me, I act like it really, really hurts. My brothers and sister think it’s hilarious. They want to play for hours, even when I’m tired.

After begging to join our game, Nick gives up. He walks to the fridge and pulls out a coke bottle. I see him struggle to get the top off. He comes to us to ask for help. I’m about to grab it and help out of habit, but Matt doesn’t even look up. He just says, “Go ask Dad,” and keeps on playing. 

I can’t get over it. It’s so different. Matt does what he wants to do. And he doesn’t do what he doesn’t want to do. That’s not my lane. That’s not even close to my life. He doesn’t have all the expectations on him that I do. I don’t know whether to envy him or not. But I do know that man, I’m tired.

As I get older, I start feeling this more. My parents are getting stricter and we argue more often. It’s like I have less freedom than ever before. When I get woken up Saturday mornings to clear the yard of sticks after dad cuts down whatever he wants — bushes, hedges — my siblings are still in their oversized sleep shirts watching cartoons. Whenever the trash needs to be taken out, whenever someone needs a ride, or someone is upset, it always falls to me. It may sound small, but it adds up. 

Sometimes I get annoyed that I’m responsible for everyone all the time. Pick up Jonathan here, drive Sarah to here, drop off Jacob over there. It’s relentless. It’d be cool, just for a little bit, to be as free as I wanted to be, just float in the air. Not to be responsible for anybody or anything. To watch a movie that wasn’t Disney for once because a sibling wasn’t always around. To go play without a sibling tagging along for me to watch over. 

It’s not that I don’t love my siblings. I really do. Caring for them comes so naturally for me. Being loving in the way a mom and dad would. Not that my momma and dad aren’t loving. They are. Very much. And I find great joy in being Bubba. I just don’t know how to always be there for them, if I’m also taking time to be there for me. 

GUNATILLAKE: How do you feel about this tension, do you recognize it? The tension of caring for the needs of others, versus your own. Deciding which way to lean. There’s no right answer. Just ask the question and hear what arises in response.

FISHER: I arrive early, before the crowds really fill up. Multiple music stages sit on open green lawns. I wear a T-shirt, gym shorts, and my burnt-orange University of Texas drawstring backpack. I wear this exact outfit every day. I’m in my first year of college. And I’m here for the Austin City Limits Music Festival.

I’ve never been to a music festival before. I’ve seen concerts at youth group conferences and stuff like that, but nothing like this. As I turn around, I see people flooding in from every direction. Suddenly, there’s no open space. I am just totally surrounded by a sea of people. The air is warm but the sky is filled with gray clouds. It slowly starts to drizzle. 

I may be in a sea of people here — but I’m entirely by myself. And it is fantastic.

When I move away to college, it’s my first time being away from home for any extended period. And it’s really hard on my siblings. I tightly hug my brother Jacob as he breaks down crying, the day he realizes we’ll all slowly move apart one by one. It’s hard for me too. I miss being there for them, miss being in their lives every day. I love to tell people at school how cool and unique my siblings are. I’ll talk your ear off if you’re not careful. 

But the little bit of distance I get being out of the house, also opens up new opportunities…for me. 

The first band I’m here to see at the festival is one I’ve never heard of before. I just like the name. I don’t need any more reason than that to check them out. On stage, they launch into this really driving bass rhythm, just a thump-thump-thump. People start cheering and losing their minds. I feel the ground shake underneath my feet. 

I’ve never heard sound this loud before. It’s a very weird sensation. I feel at peace. I feel a sense of calm. I let myself get lost in the crowd. Get lost in the music. I’ve got nowhere else to be right now.

I’m not responsible for anybody today. I don’t have to worry about anything except what feels good and right to me. This is a new feeling. But it’s also a very good feeling. When I’m with a friend or with my girlfriend at a show or something, I want them to have a good time. I naturally gravitate towards taking care of others. It makes me feel better when they’re having a good time. If they’re not liking the music, I tune into that rather than tuning into my own experience. It’s a hard pattern for me to get out of, always has been. But here, I don’t know a soul. I’m away from home, away from my siblings, all by myself. And I’m coming out of my shell. 

Being at school has really been a change of pace. Any hour of any day of the week, I can just do whatever I want. It’s like I’m unleashed in a way. It’s like running without a parachute. I join clubs. I experiment with playing music on my own. Just asking myself the question for the first time, “What do I like?”

Each day, I discover a little bit more of what it means to be fully…me. These things about me that have nothing to do with my role as a caretaker. Nothing to do with being the older brother. Not worrying about someone else’s needs or the logistics of helping someone else. Just letting Jefferson be Jefferson. It’s taking time, but I’m showing up for myself. And I’m starting to think, yeah, this is okay. 

I still think about my brothers and sister a lot. How each of them has a story. Every time I call home, the phone gets passed to each one of them with a “Hi, Bubba.” Each has a different sound to their voice. Each has a different wonderful thing they want to share with me and it puts a smile on my face. When I think about them now, I don’t feel that weight of responsibility so much. I just feel the love. And an even stronger desire to be there for them when they need me.

I side-step down the row of the old pull-out bleachers. The bench squeaks beneath my feet. I’m in the same dusty, old, junior high gym where I grew up. I played basketball here 6 years ago. I see the old team flags lining the walls about the “Class of 1987 District Champs,” and all that.

And finally, I make it to my seat. I’m right next to my parents, my brother and my sister. My mom smiles. My dad nods. 

We’re all here for the talent show. This is Jonathan’s big day. Today I woke up early, skipped a few classes, and drove five hours down from where I live on campus back to our small town. Just to be here. The kids in the dorm think I’m crazy for doing all this for a talent show. But I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

There’s no stage, just a microphone stand on that old beat-up hardwood floor on the far side of the gym. The room is full of kids. They’re cutting up and being loud and just being how kids are when they are going through puberty.

The principal walks up to the microphone and clears his throat. He calls my little brother’s name: “And now, Jonathan Fisher!” Everyone in my family sits up a little bit.

I love how different my brother Jonathan is from me. He’s more nerdy. He loves band. Loves chess. He’s not somebody who stands up straight, even though I tell him every time I see him. He certainly blinks as much as I do. All of us Fishers blink way more than is necessary. It’s a dead giveaway that we’re thinking. 

But, honestly, right now, I’m a little bit nervous for him. He’s been practicing and practicing for months on his act. Practicing with the music. And now, he’s about to get up in front of all of his friends and the entire school… with his yo-yo.

Jonathan walks out in front of the assembled audience. He’s wearing a hand-me-down Batman shirt that I got from Goodwill when I was in high school. 

The music comes on. Jonathan whips out the yo-yo and throws it. He spins it like a full clock over his head. Everyone just goes nuts. The kids are cheering, screaming, clapping, watching. That confidence he has from practicing his routine over and over and over… he just owns it and he kills it. And the kids love him.

I’m so proud. Like any father would feel. Except I’m just the big brother. 

As I sit there, I feel a lightness in my shoulders. A real solidness of my sneakers on the wood beneath me. I’m exactly where I belong. Exactly where I need to be. Rooted.

The freedom I’ve discovered at college has been amazing. But that doesn’t mean I don’t still want to be here for my siblings. The fact that I can do what I want, by myself, when I want to now… it makes me even happier to be stuck on these squeaky old bleachers, sandwiched between my family in a hot, stuffy, noisy, middle school gym on a Thursday afternoon.

The principal comes out to declare a winner. I hear Jonathan’s name. He wins! I am beaming from ear to ear. 

When will I have another chance to see my kid brother win a talent show? How many more dance recitals is my sister going to have? I don’t want to miss a single one.

I don’t feel tied down by these obligations. I feel connected.

Gaining my independence has given me more clarity on what’s important to me. Showing up for myself means I can show up better. I can show up more fully for my family.

GUNATILLAKE: Showing up. This wonderfully modern phrase — all about authenticity, presence, connection. What does showing up mean for you? And what would it be to show up just a touch more right now?

FISHER: We have a piece of family land, not too far away from where my wife, Sierra, and I live. It’s about an hour away. There’s a large pond there. Really it’s more of a small lake. And today, my son Jet wants to go fishing.

It’s going to be a Daddy and Jet day, he just keeps saying. It’s going to be Daddy and Jet day. He’ll tell anyone who’s listening. He’s five years old. Our daughter Ruby is three. I’m 34 now. I’m a lawyer, a husband, and a father. 

We drive up along the open country roads of East Texas. We get in the boat and do some fishing. And the whole time, there’s this dog that’s there. It’s not our dog. It’s just somebody’s dog. It won’t leave us alone. The dog loves Jet. Every time I cast, the dog just splashes in to go after my lure. Jet thinks it’s hilarious. He’s got a great sense of humor. Such a personality of his own. 

My daughter Ruby, she’s full of fire. Very spicy. And also very quick-witted, like Sierra. It’s a lot of fun. And even at this age, Jet is the best interpreter of what Ruby is saying and feeling. He’s very good at noticing what’s going on with her.

I remember one day, Ruby is just crying out, upset. I’m sitting right there with her and I can’t figure out whether she’s angry or hungry or what. That’s when I hear Jet’s voice from the bedroom call out, “She’s just frustrated.” He can tell better than I can what she’s trying to communicate … from three rooms away. 

The day Ruby is born, I sit Jet down and tell him the same thing my dad told me: “This is your sister. You’re the big brother. It’s your job to love her and protect her.” But I also remind him, “You be you.”

I don’t want him to be as much of an old soul as I was. He should be allowed to be a wild child too. I want them to have a great relationship, and they do. A very close relationship. But he doesn’t have to take care of her. He’s not her dad. That’s my job.

I want Jet to grow in his own pot. I want him to grow in his own independence. Be his own person. I make sure he’s not tied to only watching a show because this is the show that Ruby wants to watch. Or play this game because that’s what she wants to go play. 

Whatever he wants to do, I’m here to support it. And it’s the same for her. You want to go play in the rain, let’s go play in the rain. You want to go eat ice cream at seven o’clock before your bedtime? Okay great. Let’s go do it. You want to have fun and do something reckless? Let’s do it, within reason. 

Out on the lake, we finally catch something and we call it a day. Jet’s hungry, so on the way home we go out to this little bitty hole-in-the-wall Mexican place and get chips and queso, just the two of us. While we eat, Jet leans back in his seat. Over and over he says, “This is the best day ever.” He falls asleep on the way home. I drive through the darkness listening to his deep breaths, as happy as I can ever remember feeling. 

So many of us are taught that the best way to care for others is to put ourselves second. To be of service to others, above all, even at our own expense. And then when you finally get the chance to put yourself first, it can be intoxicating. It can be tempting to swing fully in the other direction. 

But over the years, I’ve seen again and again that you can be caring — and carefree — at the same time. Taking a break for yourself, asking yourself what you really want, brings a new joy and clarity to those moments where we can prioritize someone we love. Whether it’s a sibling, a spouse, a friend, or a child, you can show up for others even better if you’ve learned how to show up for yourself.

Rohan’s closing meditation

GUNATILLAKE: Thank you Jefferson.

Let’s start our closing meditation today, with the quality that ran all the way through Jefferson’s story. Of course I’m talking about care.

So, allowing the body to be soft and the attention gentle.

Noticing where in the body is calling out for our care.

And answering its call however we can.

Softening.

Softening.

Caring.

Not judging.

For me, Jefferson’s story is one about dialogue.

A dialogue between ourselves and the people we care about and care for.

Or zooming out a bit, between self and other.

Looking after ourselves and looking after others can feel like different things.

But as Jefferson points to, they don’t have to feed from each other, they can feed into each other.

They can be just two sides of the same coin, united by our intention.

Like the in-breath. Twinned with the out breath.

In breath. Out breath.

In. Out.

Self. Other.

In breath. Out breath.

Ourselves. Others.

The longer and more complete our in-breath is, the longer our out breath needs to be. Just as the more you care for yourself, the more you are able to be there for others.

This and that in constant conversation.

Becoming one whole. United by care.

Now let’s look to the sensations in the body.

And the mind that recognizes them.

The body and the mind.

Linked. United. One informing the other.

Just as the care we give ourselves, informs how we turn that care outwards.

Caring for others. Caring for self.

United.

One not possible without the other.

Wisdom. Compassion.

One not possible without the other.

Feeding each other.

A perfect pairing.

LIke the in-breath. And the out breath.

Thank you again Jefferson.

And thank you.

Go well.

We’d love to hear your personal reflections from Jefferson’s episode. How did you relate to his story? You can find us on all your social media platforms through our handle @MeditativeStory, or you can email us at: [email protected].