Raised in the School of 'She’ll Be Right'

Benevolent neglect, and other parenting lessons from my father.

My dad was a man of many catchphrases. “If you can’t be good, be careful” and: “Stay calm” and: “Easy come, easy go”. But the thing I remember him saying more than anything is: “She’ll be right.”

“She’ll be right” was more than a catchphrase, more, even than a mantra. She’ll be right was a way of life. Said with the kind of relaxed conviction that made you believe it, no matter the situation.

My Dad wasn’t so much a helicopter parent as he was a kite: present, but quite far away, and letting the wind do most of the work.

Laughing in a beer garden with my dad, brother and uncle, reminiscing about all the mishaps that somehow hadn’t killed us while under Dad’s care, I coined a phrase for his parenting style: benevolent neglect.

The truth is my dad let us do pretty much whatever we wanted, so long as it didn’t require a lot of effort from him. And if we weren’t actively on fire or maimed, then, she’ll be right.

This approach made life exciting and shapeless. I’ll never forget the bonfire party he let me hold when I was a teenager. My house and yard were full of the most popular boys and girls from my year, and I felt like Paris Hilton as one person puked up on my brand new bedroom carpet and another was taken away to get their stomach pumped. My dad stood by the Aga or by the bonfire drinking Carling.

Sometimes, Dad’s hands off parenting, made life feel scary, too.

There was the time my brother’s best friend drove something (a go-kart? Mini motorbike? A lawnmower?) into our ancient, oversized yucca plant. And the time one of my best friends fell out of a tree we’d rigged with a rope-and-pulley swing. Both ended in hospital visits. And I don’t think Dad said she’ll be right then.

In spite of occasional evidence to the contrary (via trips to A&E) Dad’s insistence that everything would work out remained solid. And honestly was incredibly comforting. For the longest time, I believed him wholeheartedly, if dad wasn't worried (and he almost never was) then I wasn't worried either.

It wasn’t until starting therapy and getting sober in my early 30s, that I began to question the mindset. Was, she’ll be right a lie we’d all agreed to pretend was true, to save ourselves the effort and responsibility and risk of caring? The world felt less stable, and I couldn’t hide from the fact that sometimes - often maybe - she really wasn’t right.

I was too hard on my dad, for a while, then. Not outwardly, but in the privacy of my heart. I revisited the moments where taking on his carefree philosophy left me vulnerable, and apportioned blame that he probably didn’t deserve. I regret it now.

Because it was one of the things I loved most about my dad: the way he didn’t worry or ruminate. He was sensitive, but he didn’t overthink. At least, not out loud. (He left that to me, the family specialist.) Sometimes when I touched on my latest existential crisis, he’d just look at me, dazed and amused, like he either didn’t know what I was talking about or didn’t know why I was talking about it.

Now I have a son, and I am so sad he won’t get to enjoy the freedom that came with she’ll be right. I’m far too anxious these days, hypervigilant for the worst-case scenario in almost every moment. I wish I could borrow a bit of that lackadaisical attitude I was raised with.

My brother inherited it, in spades. After I was bitten by a rat recently — yep, a rat, that’s a story for another time — I called him, panicking about whether I needed a tetanus jab. “Ah, you’ll be fine,” he said. He probably threw in a casual she’ll be right for good measure.

I let myself believe him. I didn’t rush to the doctor, didn’t err on the side of caution. I just went on holiday and hoped for the best. It was such a relief to do nothing. And you know what? It *was* fine!

I think that’s what I loved most about my dad’s hands off approach to parenting (and life): he gave me permission to just be. To not endlessly question, plan, or prepare. To not impress. It got me into trouble sometimes, sure, but it also gave so much freedom. My dad had a defiance that I still long to cultivate. And anxious as I am, without beer as my coping mechanism and social tool, it’s a big part of who I am today, as well.

I worry my dad felt himself knocked from the pedestal I’d put him on. Now he's gone, I try to focus on the many years he enjoyed it up there. I hope his descent wasn’t too painful.

Looking back, I realize I used to invest my dad with spiritual powers he probably didn’t have. His she’ll be right vibe felt like a kind of zen acceptance that belonged to him alone, a secret superpower. It made him different from all the other concerned, hyper-vigilant parents in a way that made me so proud. He seemed completely uninfluenced by anyone. It was the most amazing and most frustrating thing about him.

These days, I’m still trying to find a balance. I want to be responsible without being uptight. I don’t want to live in a constant state of panic, but I can’t pretend I don’t see the risks. I guess the truth is somewhere in between: not she’ll be right in every situation, but also not the endless what ifs I can torment myself with now.

Maybe the real lesson he was trying to teach me is that most times, things will be right — and when they’re not, we’ll figure it out anyway. Together. Occasionally at A&E.

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Things to overthink about:

When was the last time you were able to just let something go and trust it would work out?

Have you ever fallen from someone else’s pedestal? How did it feel, to be on the receiving end of that shift in perspective?

And most importantly, what’s one area of your life where you could stand to embrace a little more she’ll be right energy?

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Chelsey Flood is the author of award-winning novels Infinite Sky and Nightwanderers, and a senior lecturer in creative writing at UWE. She is currently working on a book about getting sober and then finding out she’s autistic/ADHD, and her first domestic thriller.