I remember, once, walking into my mother’s suite, and finding her slouched across her chaise lounge, staring at the lake through the balcony doors, tears trickling slowly down her face. I had been sent to tell her that brunch was being served (early, since my parents were hosting a dinner party later that evening), but hesitated at the outer door, when I heard the strains of Nina Simone emanating from her rooms. But I entered anyway, only to find…not my mother, but the shell of my mother: a tired, pale, and sad reproduction. Over brunch (which my mother took in her room, the tray returned untouched), my father had mumbled something about “one of her moods,” and I suspected that she would not be attending the dinner party that evening.

But later, just as the first guests were being received, my mother appeared at the top of the stairway, descended it with her head held high and a smile stretching her lips, and joined my father at his side, her eyes sparkling with genuine warmth and happiness.

I never knew why she was crying that day. And I never knew why she chose to attend a dinner party when, only a few hours earlier, she had been so very sad.

I remembered this day of my childhood early in the spring of 2004, during a Saturday afternoon rainstorm in Honolulu, slouched across a futon, staring at the waters of the gray Pacific, tears trickling slowly down my face, and watching, for the first time, episode 86 of “Sex and the City”: “One.” Charlotte had just miscarried, and was slumped on her sofa much like I was slumped on mine: crying, and watching television. She cried until she heard the words of Elizabeth Taylor say, in a voice-over from “The E! True Hollywood Story” she was watching, “Now is the time for guts and guile.” And Charlotte turned off the television, dressed, and once again entered the world, with head held high, as she walked out of her apartment building and down the street.

I thought I knew why I was crying that day. And, although I still did not know why my mother chose to attend that dinner party when she was clearly so very depressed, I re-entered my own world the next morning, with head held high, but not quite with a smile.

Because I did not know, then, the real reasons for my tears.

I found myself back in that space this past weekend: slouched across a futon, staring at the mountains through my windows, tears trickling slowly down my face…and wondering, “Why am I here again?!”

The “emergency” session with my therapist yesterday afternoon was intensely productive for a session that was far shorter than usual and with so many more connections and issues to cover. My mother came up; my bad habits came up; even my pillows made a brief appearance. And I left the session greatly calmed, with a better understanding of the real reasons for my tears, and a list of specific tasks to accomplish to…well, to make my own life better.

But I don’t think what I learned yesterday really hit me until this morning, as I emerged from the lobby of my condo building, turned my face upward toward the sun, and felt the corners of my mouth begin to rise in a slight smile, remembering Charlotte, and remembering my mother. My morning walk to work was more of a breakthrough than any “emergency” therapy session could have been, and by the time I reached my office building, a very wide smile stretched my lips. Because I finally got it: in life, there are those times when being sad while “waiting for The One” is entirely fine; but then there are those other times when it isn’t…when you realize that you are the only “One” who can fully take control, make changes, move on, or even…be happy…for yourself.

At least, that’s what I finally realized, for myself, this morning, and by doing so, developed quite a new appreciation for the word “One.”

And I think I finally understand why my mother chose to attend that dinner party: because she always did know when it was time for sadness, and when it was time for guts…and guile.