Tiny Buddha

Tag: weakness

  • How Admitting Your Weaknesses Could Actually Make You Stronger

    How Admitting Your Weaknesses Could Actually Make You Stronger

    “The first step towards change is awareness. The second step is acceptance.” ~Nathaniel Branden

    Do me a favor and don’t tell my wife what I’m about to share with you.

    I have an absurd number of weaknesses.

    Just kidding. My wife, of course, knows this. She is well aware of my many shortcomings. While she would be happy to add to the growing Encyclopedia of dumb shit I do, I will keep this short and sweet out of respect for your time.

    We live in a weird culture that’s afraid to admit any of us have weaknesses or struggles. We’re terrified because none of us want to look stupid or unqualified.

    We pretend to be squeaky-clean specimens of perfection, but inside, our minds are on the verge of exploding as we obsess over questions like: What will people think of me? Will they think I’m dumb? Will I be passed up for a promotion? Will others discover that I’m struggling? Am I actually a fraud?!

    What makes this even more challenging is that it’s a silly game we all willingly play.

    Think of a typical job interview.

    HR: “So, Terry, we’re really impressed with everything you shared today, but we have one final question. What would you say is your biggest weakness?”

    Terry: “This one’s really hard to admit, but it’s got to be that I work too hard. I’m always willing to go above and beyond to get the job done.”

    HR: “Wow, thank you for being so vulnerable, Terry. You sound like you’d be a great fit for mentoring our new hires as they navigate the challenges of working in a fast-paced environment.”

    Here’s the truth: We both know Terry is full of crap. Like, c’mon, Terry, is that really your biggest weakness? That you work too hard? Are you sure it’s not that you’re an emotional black hole since your divorce, which is why your kids don’t talk to you?

    I’m aware that what I’m about to share sounds contradictory, but it’s true. Admitting you have weaknesses is a sign of strength, not weakness. You must know what you can do and what you can’t, your powers and limitations, your strengths and vulnerabilities, what’s in your control and what isn’t.

    There are obvious circumstances that make admitting our weaknesses easy. In fact, not realizing you are outside the scope of what you know in these situations makes you look about as bright as a jellyfish.

    Break your leg? You go to the emergency room.

    Car alternator blows? You go to a mechanic.

    Time to do your business taxes? You go to an accountant.

    But here’s where we all start to fall apart. What about when you’re depressed, hopeless, or emotionally drained, and you don’t know how to help yourself?

    What do most of us do in the above scenario?

    Sweet eff all.

    Actually, that’s not true. We double down on negative habits like drinking, eating, shopping, or mindlessly scrolling on our phones, hoping something will change our state.

    We’re not weak, right?

    We don’t have a problem, right?

    Who cares if we’re not addressing our emotions? There’s work to be done. I already don’t have time to get everything done, so why would I waste time on crap like this?

    It’s embarrassing to admit that I believed not addressing my weaknesses was a sign of strength.

    My depression only made me weak because I kept it hidden in the shadows—not because mental health struggles are signs of inherent weakness. I endured relentless suffering, tormented by the belief that I was a worthless bag of flesh who subjected my loved ones to my endless mistakes and would be better off dead.

    What was I trying to prove?

    Why was I so afraid of looking weak?

    Would I be less of a man?

    And here’s the irony. By asking those questions, I realized that I was the one labeling these weaknesses as such. That shift empowered me to confront these challenges head-on, seeking the support of a therapist and coach, and hold myself to a higher standard.

    I’ve discovered that these “weaknesses” are sources of extraordinary growth. Therefore, acknowledging our weaknesses is the key to becoming stronger.

    I was blind to the cost of my denial until I gained a different perspective. I needed a new pair of glasses to show me that how you do anything is how you do everything.

    When I viewed these moments as gravity problems—things I couldn’t do anything about—I felt hopeless about everything in my life. But when I realized that these were challenges that I could overcome, I was given the opportunity to see that I could conquer any obstacle in my path if I was willing to embrace imperfection.

    Don’t let the subtlety of this shift in thinking race past you as you read the rest of this story. Understand first that you and I are having this conversation because I chose life.

    If you don’t address a broken leg, you’re going to hobble around like a pirate for the rest of your life.

    If you don’t fix your alternator, you have a 3,000-pound paperweight.

    If you don’t get an accountant to handle your business taxes, you will pay dearly to the tax man.

    And if you don’t address your emotional issues?

    You will forever be anchored to a tiny, scared version of yourself. Never capable of reaching your potential.

    It’s not enough to know that you have weaknesses; you must know when you’ve reached the limit of what you can figure out independently. You’re outside your boundaries if you don’t know which side of the line you’re on, or if there even is a line at all.

    I’m not here to tell you what to do, but you can bet I will leave you with a question.

    Six months from now, what will you wish you had spent time on today? What action would help you get the support you need to overcome something you’ve been struggling with?

    Calling a friend?

    Grabbing breakfast with your mom?

    Booking a therapist appointment?

    That, my friend, is what matters most.

    And nothing else on your to-do list will fulfill you if you don’t prioritize it.

    Choosing not to act now is delaying a better future. So, whatever you’re going to do, do it. Do it now. Don’t wait.

  • If You Stuff Your Emotions Down: You Gotta Feel It to Heal It

    If You Stuff Your Emotions Down: You Gotta Feel It to Heal It

    “Sit with it. Sit with it. Sit with it. Sit with it. Even though you want to run. Even when it’s heavy and difficult. Even though you’re not quite sure of the way through. Healing happens by feeling.” ~Dr. Rebecca Ray

    I’ve spent much of my life resisting my true feelings.

    Anger made me feel wrong. Sadness made me feel weak. Neediness made me feel “girly.” Love made me feel scared.

    I became an expert at hiding when I was feeling any of the above.

    Some people numb their feelings with alcohol, drugs, shopping, or sex. I numb with control. Being in control. Exerting control. Maintaining iron-will control over everything in my life, including my emotions.

    The thing about the  illusion of being in control is that it really only works for so long before emotions bubble up to the surface, erupt like a dormant volcano, and explode onto someone or something unintended. And trust me when I tell you, that ain’t pretty.

    One of the most famous quotes of every twelve-step program is: “You gotta feel it to heal it.” As someone who absolutely hated feeling anything that made me uncomfortable, this was the best advice I’d ever heard and the single most important tool I started using over the years to heal from anything in my life that was hard.

    It was in that twelve-step program for an eating disorder I had many years ago where I learned that all my ‘self-control’ tactics were an illusion.  If I would just allow myself to feel “it,” whatever “it” was, I could make peace with a lot of things, including myself.

    My mom was the role model I grew up with. Strong. Resilient. Positive and always in control. I strived to be like her. Positive and happy no matter what life threw my way.

    We were raised to not be weak, negative, or ungrateful because (we were told) somebody out there had it worse than us. The way through life was to remain positive. I mean, if she could do it, why couldn’t I?

    But I was different. More sensitive. Overly sensitive. A tad too empathetic. A chronic people-pleaser who didn’t like to rock the boat or risk anyone not liking me. When I had big feelings, I thought it best to push those feelings right down.

    Anger got me into trouble and cost me my childhood best friend. Sadness and tears (especially if, God forbid, they happened in the workplace) were “unprofessional,” I was told. And being anything but positive cramped my Supergirl vibe because people had gushed to me my entire life how “strong and resilient” I was, and I wanted to live up to their perception of me.

    But pushing down my feelings led to things that, for periods of time, wrecked my life: Depression. Anxiety. Secrets. Migraines. Illness. Chronic fatigue. Binging. Purging. Lies. And ultimately, not feeling I could be who I truly was and still be loved.

    And like every human being that walks this earth, I wanted to be able to be me and still be loved.

    So I started to do work on myself. And that work, let me tell you, was hard. But as one of my very favorite authors, Glennon Doyle, likes to say, “We can do hard things.”

    The hard thing for me was surrendering to the discomfort, the judgment of others, the judgments I had about myself, and owning the truth of who I was and how I actually felt about things.

    So I went to therapy. I signed up for yoga/meditation retreats. I dove deep into spirituality. I prayed and sat in silence for hours listening for God and then writing what I heard Him say.

    I traveled to Peru and then Costa Rica, where I was introduced to sacred plant medicine, and purged out all the feelings I didn’t realize I had been carrying for years in ceremonies that literally changed my life. Wisdom and visions guided me to make changes I don’t think I would have had the courage to make on my own.

    If you’re brave enough to step outside your comfort zone and try different things to open your heart and hold a mirror up to yourself, you’ll uncover one simple truth: You’ve got to feel whatever it is you’re running from to heal that thing for good.

    For those people who think I have it all together all the time, I want to set the record straight…

    None of us has it together all of the time. And to believe that you should, that there is anybody in this world who has “it”—whatever “it” is—together all the time, well that’s the very thing that’s causing any of us to feel sad, angry, overwhelmed, depressed, anxious, (fill in the blank with whatever emotion you think you shouldn’t be feeling today).

    I have it together most days. And others I’m completely overwhelmed.

    I’m sometimes sad for no reason at all.  But still, I allow myself to cry.

    I feel sorry for myself some days, knowing that somebody out there has it worse than me. But I no longer try to shut that feeling down. I let it come. Feel it. Let it pass.

    We all have something in our lives that makes us feel sorry for ourselves. Let’s stop declaring to the world “I’m fine” when we really aren’t and, instead, accept it’s just a feeling—and feeling anything other than fine is not admitting we’re weak or pathetic, but human.

    I get angry. And when I do, I  don’t make myself out to be a villain because of that anger. I just ask it what it’s trying to show me about myself or someone else and then I listen to it. I approach it with compassion instead of judgment. Maybe I have a right to be angry. Maybe someone is doing something hurtful, and the anger is inviting me to stand up for myself, or walk away, or learn how to set a boundary.

    Every feeling we have is trying to teach us something. I’ve learned to listen to the teacher and ask, “What are you trying to show me?”

    I’ve been through loss. Betrayal. Divorce. Depression. An eating disorder. All things that others have been through. We all have our things we need to heal from. Mine aren’t any harder or less hard than yours.

    But you can heal. You can be happy even if you’ve been through something sad. You can be you and still be loved. But you’ve gotta feel it to heal it if you want to get there.

    I’m grateful for all of my life. Not just the good stuff.

    I’m grateful for the hard things. The hard things are what have shown me who I am, what I’m made of, and pushed me to create the best life possible for myself and my children. The hard things pushed me to heal things that needed to be healed for decades.

    If sharing my story encourages just one person to find the courage to do the hard things to help them heal… well then, the hard things, in my opinion, have been totally worth it.

  • Why I Never Let Anyone Support Me Until the Day I Almost Died

    Why I Never Let Anyone Support Me Until the Day I Almost Died

    “Why don’t you get up and make the coffee, while I stay in my sleeping bag and plan our ascent route?” I half-heartedly ask my climbing partner Hank.

    He just looks at me with that unassuming, “give-me-a-break Val Jon” look of his. It’s three o’clock in the morning, cold, dark, and damp, and neither of us wants to leave the comfort of our tent. But we’re committed to this climb, so we don our parkas and gloves and confront the bitter cold.

    In silence, Hank and I gather up our gear and join the rest of our climb team assembled at base camp, which is located at eleven thousand feet.

    Thirty-three climbers in all have come together for this extraordinary ice climb to the summit of Mount Shasta in Northern California. During our team meeting, we decide to make our ascent via “Avalanche Gulch,” a treacherous glacier route up a steep icy slope. This particular route is shorter than others, but it’s also notorious for its deep crevasses and unstable blue fractures, so one wrong move could mean sudden death.

    Ice climbing requires crampons for the boots and ice axes for leverage and braking. Ropes, carabiners, and belays are reserved for near-vertical climbs, which we may or may not need for this particular ascent route.

    For those unfamiliar with ice climbing, braking is used when a climber loses their footing on steep slopes. It’s done by grabbing the ax with both hands, flipping onto one’s side, and plunging the sharp metal tong into the ice.

    A firmly planted ax serves as an anchor and stabilizes the fallen climber’s position until they can regain their footing. Everyone on the team has practiced the braking procedure many times over along with other vital safety and life-saving protocols.

    As the full moon casts a bluish glow over the ice, we begin our ascent to the summit. At about twelve thousand feet, we come upon a massive fissure running horizontally across the steep glacier face. We traverse around its left edge and cross back about thirty feet above it. Climbing to the slope’s center, we zig-zag our way up to gain altitude and distance from the crevasse.

    Traversing around crevasses is a treacherous activity. If one climber slips, the entire group could be pulled into the abyss. For this reason, we are untethered and climbing independently. We are, however, organized into small teams of six to provide each other support if needed.

    All goes well as we gain altitude above the crevasse, until one fateful moment when the crampon on my left boot suddenly pops loose and I lose my footing.

    Tumbling headfirst downhill, I instinctively grab my ice ax with both hands and prepare to stop. Landing hard on my back, however, my ax bounces loose from my hands and I slide uncontrollably down the steep slope towards the crevasse.

    In a moment of frozen terror, my life flashes before my eyes and I am going to die! Then suddenly my flailing body slams into something solid, knocking the wind out of me.

    Stunned and disoriented on my back with my head pointed downhill, I’m unable to get a bearing on how close to the edge I’ve come and how close to death I am.

    Looking up, I see a blur of movement and shifting dark images. Clearing the snow and ice off my glacier glasses, I realize Hank and my fellow climbers have formed a human net, catching me just a few yards before I careened over the edge of the crevasse!

    I’m in shock, numb, and completely speechless. I’m also totally embarrassed and feeling extremely vulnerable. I’ve spent years being a strong and independent man, priding myself on not needing the help of anyone. Needing help always seemed like a sign of weakness to me, so this emergency situation is deeply disturbing.

    “We’ve got you, VJ! Hold on buddy, we’re not gonna let you fall!” I fidget around trying to stand myself up and respond, “Thanks guys, I can take it from here.” “Lay still, you’re pushing us back towards the edge!” Hank barks at me. “No, really, I’m okay guys, I’ve got this.” There was no way I was going to be the weakest link in this chain! This time, however, a number of my team members replied, “No you don’t have it VJ, you need to stop right now or you’re going to kill us all!”

    That message got in. The reality of killing my fellow climbers so I can stay in control is just too much for me to bear. The humbling realization shatters my macho control mechanism and I suddenly relax into letting them help me.

    As they reattach my gear, stand me up and reassure me with pats on the back, I realize it’s nearly impossible for anyone to support me. Experiencing them caring for me this way is both wonderful and wrenching.

    My chest tightens and tears come to my eyes as I realize how many times in my life I’ve not let others help or support me. I would always say, “No problem, I can do it myself.” I didn’t want to burden anyone or put anyone out.

    The deeper truth, however, is that if I let someone support me, I would be obligated to them in the future. The result might be that they could then somehow control me the way my father controlled me as a child.

    Looking into the caring faces of my fellow climbers, I suddenly see superimposed images of my mother, sister, and little brother, my friends, and exes who I’ve shunned and alienated with my stubborn macho independence

    I reflect on the pain and frustration that not being able to help me must have caused all these people in my life. So many opportunities I have had to accept the support of those who love and care for me, but no, I have to be strong and independent.

    How selfish and arrogant of me to rob them of the opportunity to contribute to my life! And how easy it would be for me to slide into humiliation over this display of narcissism.

    Standing here among those who just risked their lives to save mine, I realize I have a choice; I can dramatize my humiliation and hide behind my rugged individualism, or I can humbly open myself to their care and support.

    I choose to set humiliation aside and open with humility, and as I do, a wave of emotion fills me. For the first time in my life, as far back as I can remember, I’m able to see that accepting help from others is not a sign of weakness, it’s an act of humility.

    I also realize that rather than being a burden to people when I’m in need, it allows them to feel useful and to make a difference by offering their support and care. There’s no doubt that my fellow climbers are ecstatic about having just saved my life; I can see the joy and exhilaration on their faces.

    Still surrounded by a human net of care, I thank each member of my team for saving my life, and I apologize for placing them in additional danger. Each one of them nods in recognition, and nearly everyone assures me that having the chance to help save my life was far more important to them than blaming me for being a bit heedless.

    As I allow myself to be vulnerable and let their care in, my defensive armor melts, then drops away. We resume our ascent, and tears fill my glacier glasses as I reflect on the experience of my life being saved by this remarkable group of friends.

    How strange and new this is for me. I don’t need to see out of my glasses because I have the full support of those behind me as well as those in front to help me along if I need it.

    I’ve always been the one to give support to others, but now I can receive support as well. I breathe into this new awareness and suddenly have a profound realization that has remained with me for years.

    As I exhale, it’s synonymous with the movement of giving support, and as I inhale, it’s synonymous with the movement of receiving support. Engaging in both inhaling and exhaling doesn’t mean I’m weak, it means I’m human.

    Without further incident, we all ascend to the 14,179-foot summit of Mt. Shasta where a crystalline blue sky embraces the curve of the earth. The summit perch looks like a small crater and is no more than about twenty feet in diameter. Its outer rim is composed of a ring of rocky crags with one high point that signifies the very pinnacle of the mountain.

    Shining, sunburned faces grinning from ear to ear sit together in a blissful exchange of laughter and tears.

    After celebrating our joint accomplishment, we begin the ritual of reading and signing the register book stowed atop most climbable mountains in the world. The one at the summit of Mt. Shasta is contained inside a green metal canister under the Western crag.

    Each member of the team, like those before us, takes the opportunity with the book. After finishing, Hank hands it to me. As the last to see the register, I flip through its yellowed pages and my eyes fall on a passage written by a climber on October 23rd, 1972. I’ll never forget the inscription:

    “Father, I dedicate this climb to you. I’m standing at the top of Mount Shasta today because of the love, support, and encouragement you gave me as I was growing up. It’s because of your commitment and love that I was able to make it to the summit today. And although you lost your legs in the Korean War and have never been able to stand beside me. Father, I want you to know that today I stand on the top of this mountain for both of us. I love you with all my heart and all my soul, your son John.”

    How beautiful this dedication is! I take in the grandeur of the Earth’s curve from this high summit, close the book, and clutch it firmly to my chest. A wave of inspiration fills me, and I feel deep abiding compassion for all the world’s fathers, sons, mothers, and daughters . . . and I am challenged to act upon the humility that was moving so deeply within me.

    You see, up until this very moment I’ve coveted a deep wound in my psyche. As a boy, I was violently abused by my father, and as a result, I cut myself off from him in my early twenties vowing to never speak with him again.

    But now I am faced with a choice . . . should I maintain my position and continue to empower all the reasons why I should not reach out to him? Or should I humble myself and take a chance by reconnecting after all these years? It is here, within these deeply challenging life choices, that we both test the authenticity of our inspirations and discover what we are truly devoted to.

    I made my choice, and not only did I resurrect my relationship with my father, I affirmed that there is nothing more important to me than living with an open heart and honoring the humility I was gifted with high atop the summit of humility.

  • How Boys Learn to Repress Their Feelings and How We Can Do Better as Men

    How Boys Learn to Repress Their Feelings and How We Can Do Better as Men

    “Shoutout to all the men going through a lot, with no one to turn to, because this world wrongly taught our males to mask their emotions and that strong means silent.” ~Alex Myles

    He is close to tears. He is not physically hurt. No ankle has been twisted, no knee has been scraped, nobody needs their asthma inhaler.

    The other boys are making fun of his size.

    Most of the time he pretends it doesn’t bother him. But I’m the coach, and it’s pretty hard to miss.

    I have watched him smile and try to shake it off. Sometimes he will parry with a comment of his own—something about them that they’re sensitive of…

    I know this thing that they are doing. I call this “emotional arm punching.” It’s a rite of passage boys use to desensitize themselves to emotions, just like when they punch each other repeatedly in the bicep and try not to show how much it hurts. 

    For about two months out of the year I am entrusted with seeing some of the real feelings these kids have. The reason why I get to see them is because they haven’t yet been taught not to allow themselves to feel them. They haven’t been taught that emotions are a weakness. But I can tell you this, it is definitely beginning, and this emotional arm punching, especially with boys, is the sign of it.

    This term I’ve coined—emotional arm punching—you see it all the time on playgrounds, middle and high school sports, probably even in the Boy Scouts. Maybe you remember it from when you were younger? It’s the tiny emotional jabs you take at your friends about things that you know they’re sensitive about that hurt their feelings.

    I know this well from my own experience. I was called stupid and berated by my coaches because, try as I might, I could never remember the plays.

    The other players would use the coach’s opinion of my play to deflect the attention from their own failings by coming after me relentlessly for my inability to remember plays, or, even worse, if I let down my guard and told my teammates how the coach’s remarks made me feel.

    Ultimately, I found myself deflecting my emotional hurt, hurling my own insults or digs back on my teammates about their performance.

    Now, if you asked most people, they would say this is a rite of passage in our society. You’re learning how to “be a man.” You’re learning to not let emotions affect you.

    Unfortunately, I can tell you this firsthand: it doesn’t teach kids not to have emotions. What it teaches them is to not tell or show anybody what they are feeling and to repress their emotions, just like I learned to do.

    With no one to help me actually work through my feelings, I found myself stuffing down my embarrassment and shame until those emotions became a roaring anger. That anger would ultimately become disproportionately intense. However, with no place to go, it would erupt from me when I least expected it—often on my friends or my mom.

    Kids are being called short, fat, ugly, or any unacceptable thing that their friends (or even those who aren’t their friends) say about them—under the flag of jest of course.

    What is the result? You get a bunch of kids that start to learn that they are not supposed to react. They pretend emotions don’t bother them. But in reality? They hurt doubly worse because they can’t get any support or acknowledgment for what they’re feeling.

    Why does this matter? Because those circles you see on the sports fields, in the schools, or even the Boy Scouts, you’re going to see when you’re grown up and go to the holiday party, bowling team, or men’s club. It’s the same people.

    They grew up and their emotions are so repressed that they come out in much more unhealthy or even lethal ways. Think excessive drinking, angry outbursts, isolation, domestic violence.

    Adults who learned to repress their emotions as children end up resorting to finding ways to numb those emotions that are seeping out because they didn’t learn the tools to process them.

    And then there’s blame!

    Blame is when our ‘uncomfortable emotions’ cup runneth over inside of us. When we give emotions like fear, anxiety, and anger a nice, comfortable home outside of us by spilling them all over someone else in the form of blame.

    in her Ted Talk, The Power of Vulnerability, internationally renowned speaker, storyteller, and researcher Brené Brown said that blame is described in research as a way to discharge pain and discomfort.

    Blame is acting out your anger instead of dealing with your emotions and the problem that’s in front of you. I had this a lot!  Eventually, however, I recognized the pain my actions and outburst of anger caused my friends and loved ones ultimately silenced me and, for a long time, kept me from making real connections in my life.

    If we want men to be more aware of and able to identify how they feel so that they have choices instead of reactions—choice of the challenges they will pursue in their lives, the relationships they will create, the work that will satisfy them, and the kind of father they want to be—we’re going about it all wrong.

    One of the best tools I’ve learned when dealing with my feelings is what I call “emotionally testifying.”  This starts with developing a practice of becoming familiar with all of your emotions, not just the ones that we as men find socially acceptable.

    Recognize what your emotions feel like in your body. Then, have the courage to express them to trusted friends and family, describing how you are feeling and why you think you’re feeling that way.

    This familiarity with uncomfortable emotions allows you to start to trust yourself with expressing them. They’re not foreign to you, or something to be afraid or ashamed of.

    As you become confident at identifying and expressing your emotions with people you trust, you’ll be able to respond differently when you later find yourself with a group of other guys, and that emotional arm punching begins.

    Instead of perpetuating this socially accepted, but emotionally unhealthy norm, you will have the skills to express how you feel about what’s being said in a way that is authentic to you without harming anyone else.

    I believe it is more masculine to identify and understand your emotions and to acknowledge and accept when you hurt someone else’s feelings. Just because somebody said something to you that hurt you doesn’t give you the right to go off and put those hard feelings out on someone else. That is not a sign of strength.

    Strength is knowing how you really want to feel and interacting with your friends from a place of honesty and empathy.

    If you want to learn to trust yourself and your emotions, tell your friends how you feel. If they give you a hard time, you will recover and be healthier for it. And you never know, they might follow your lead and give you an emotionally honest response back. Either way, it’ll save a lot of emotional bruising.

  • Why I’ve Stopped Hiding My Struggles

    Why I’ve Stopped Hiding My Struggles

    “The moment that you feel, just possibly, you are walking down the street naked, exposing too much of your heart and your mind, and what exists on the inside, showing too much of yourself… that is the moment you might be starting to get it right.” ~Neil Gaiman

    The road seemed to go on forever.

    Although it was only about 8:30 a.m., the summer sun was already blazing in the sky, shining down with such intensity I felt like an ant under a merciless magnifying glass.

    Seven miles into an eight-mile run and growing more and more tired with each step, I faced the final stretch along a tarmac path bustling with fellow runners, dog walkers, cyclists, and the occasional rollerblader.

    “Not… far… to… go,” I repeated to myself, as I trudged along with all the grace of a baby elephant. As faster and leaner runners passed me, I noticed my mind was slipping into self-comparison mode, but then I pulled myself back to the present moment.

    As I became more present, I observed.

    I observed the slight twinge in my left shin and the sound of birdsong from nearby bushes. To my surprise, I observed another more interesting phenomenon, an old pattern I thought I had beaten.

    As I passed other people walking, running, cycling, and blading in the opposite direction, I noticed my demeanor changed. I went from running like a baby elephant to galloping like a gazelle, from looking like the newbie runner I am to pretending to be a seasoned professional athlete.

    In the brief moments my path crossed with strangers, I hid my struggle.

    My posture improved and the grimace on my face turned into a confident smile.

    But why?

    Why did I feel the need to hide my struggle and present a more “I have it all together” version of myself?

    I pondered this question for a few days after this intriguing observation. Why do any of us feel the need to appear more together than we are?

    The answer I came up with is this…

    We hide our struggles because we’ve learned that showing signs of struggle or weakness is a bad thing.

    However, I believe this couldn’t be further from the truth.

    In our early lives, we were more than willing to show signs of struggle. When we were tired, upset, or frustrated, we communicated exactly how we felt (through cries and tantrums). A little bit older, when confused in the classroom, we were more likely to put our hands up and ask for help.

    We knew at a young age that struggling was a part of life, and a sign we were soon going to learn something new.

    Sadly, as we became older, it became more and more unacceptable to struggle and fail. Teachers and parents became less sympathetic and patient as their expectations increased. We began striving for perfection, which, of course, is unattainable.

    To wash away the false idea that showing signs of struggle is a bad thing, we need to remember these three important truths.

    1. Struggling is normal.

    It seems so darn obvious, but when I’m hiding my struggles, I’m denying the truth that struggling is normal. I’m buying into stories like “I should know better,” “I shouldn’t feel like this,” and “I should look like I have it all together.”

    The bottom line is, we’re human, meaning we’re all imperfect and we all struggle. No one has it all together. No one has a perfect life. And no one feels happy, confident, and positive all the time.

    Rather than feel ashamed and hide our struggles, we need to recognize that struggles are human and appreciate ourselves for doing our best in any given moment.

    2. Unless we show we’re struggling, we’re unable to receive help.

    Whenever I pretend I’m not struggling, the door to receive help is closed.

    In my early twenties, I went through a hard time. Facing financial struggles, daily anxiety, and dwindling confidence, I felt like I’d fallen down a deep, dark hole. I’d wake each day feeling helpless. But for almost two years, I lived a lie, in complete denial about my life situation. To the outside world, all was well.

    Eventually, it got too much and I had to get real. It started with a simple phone conversation with a lady from a debt agency. In two minutes, I felt like a huge burden had been lifted from my shoulders. This was the start of admitting I was struggling and getting some help.

    No matter what our struggles are, right now there are people who can (and want to) help. No one could help me unless I helped myself first, and it started with getting real.

    3. Showing we’re struggling gives others permission to show they’re struggling too.

    The moment we take off the masks and make ourselves vulnerable, we give others permission to do the same.

    After tackling my financial struggles, I began to open up about my anxiety. I remember being sat in a pub with a close friend of mine when I decided to share with him how I’d been struggling with an anxious mind.

    His response shocked me: “That’s exactly how I’ve been feeling.” For years, we’d both been struggling with the same thing but had never once spoken about how we’d felt. How sad.

    When we share our struggles with those around us, we give them permission to voice theirs, if they wish to share. We may never know just how life-changing that permission may be to someone. They may feel alone, overwhelmed, or even at the end of their rope, and we could change it all by giving them an opportunity to receive our understanding and support.

    —

    Now when I lace up my running shoes, I leave the mask at home. And if I’m struggling at work, in my relationships, or in any other area of my life, I let other people in.

    I no longer pretend to be fine when I’m not because when I’ve been honest in the past, only good has happened.

  • Sensitivity Means Passion, Not Weakness

    Sensitivity Means Passion, Not Weakness

    “The fact that you’re struggling doesn’t make you a burden. It doesn’t make unlovable, undesirable, or undeserving of care. It doesn’t make you too much or too sensitive or too needy. It makes you human. “ ~Daniell Koepke

    A while back, during one of my therapy sessions, I became acquainted with the word “dysthymia.”

    I was puzzled at first, but as my therapist dug deeper into the subject, I realized that complex-sounding term was, in fact, a birth name to the grizzly monster that has been shadowing me for years. It’s more commonly known as persistent depressive disorder.

    I can’t exactly remember the onset of an extended period when I felt lower than usual. It might have sneaked in unnoticed in my early teens and grown out of proportion since then. It might have been born with me. I have no idea.

    All I know is, I’ve had a pervading sense of hopelessness long enough to convince myself that something was wrong. It’s only natural for a child to feel threatened by the world around them. At least that’s how I felt, day in and day out.

    I was told it would only be a matter of time until I grew out of it and became a self-assured woman. Well, I’m twenty years old and this day has never come, and I’ll tell you, the old times were paradise. I was lucky to have my parents’ back in every situation, and the thought of loosening my grip on their protection with the passing years was a scary prospect.

    Inevitably, I grew up and things didn’t get any easier.

    My generalized fear mingled with an endless hunt for the meaning behind words, people’s actions, and even life itself. The existential nature of these questions made it impossible for me to get concrete answers, which overloaded my brain with the untold possibilities, thus fueling an anxiety disorder.

    Being an avid gobbler of pills and a depression sufferer herself, my mother suggested that I went to a psychiatrist. As expected, at sixteen I left the doctor’s office with an antidepressant prescription in hand, as I doubted both my sanity and worth.

    In a different session, I can recall my therapist drawing a chart of sorts, in order to illustrate my situation: she traced three parallel horizontal lines and named them “euphoria,” “neutrality,” and “depression,” from top to bottom.

    She then drew a squiggly line with stable highs and lows, yet mostly focused in the area between depression and neutrality.

    What that means is I’m bound to feel down most days, with the occasional bout of gloom and/or cheerfulness, depending on the situation. The mood sways aren’t fickle; they’re usually curbed into the same spectrum, but still, sometimes I wish the ups would last longer.

    “Don’t worry, that is very common in highly sensitive people,” she said to me. “Now that you’ve named that feeling, it will become easier to deal with.”

    At the time, that wasn’t helpful at all. Why did my personality have to be built this way? Would I have to deal with this for the rest of my life? That’s not what I came here for!

    I developed an unhealthy habit of comparison, as I envied the life of every extroverted and confident person I knew, even if that meant scrolling through their social media pages (which, let’s face it, makes everyone seem at the top of their game on a daily basis).

    For months on end I tried to stick to a fully positive lifestyle. Spoiler alert: I was doing it wrong. It took me a while to recognize that I didn’t have to be happy all the time nor rebuff my icky moments in exchange for a phony, dimmed spark of sunshine. I felt something was missing.

    I was in denial. I was rejecting myself, whom I’ll have to spend the rest of my days with whether I want to or not. Little did I know, refusing who I was wouldn’t do anything for me; it would only hinder the process of acceptance.

    All I had to do was skew my perspective, bit by bit. And I did, with the help of unexpected sources and events.

    Sensitivity Means Passion

    During a recent conversation with my brother, I came to the slow realization that I might have underrated what can prove itself to be a powerful attribute.

    His girlfriend had broken up with him, and his devastation was painful to watch. However, his main objection was that he felt guilty for “feeling too much while she felt way less.” I could identify with him at that moment.

    He would beat himself up and judge his past actions, wishing he could go back and suppress the excess emotion he poured into the relationship. Anyone who’s familiar with him would advise him to never change for a girl, and that the right one would see this supposed “defect” as a major quality.

    Being his twin sister, of course we’d share some traits– besides in appearance. And that’s it: we feel too much. Too much of everything, whether it be the pain of a heartbreak or the delight of succeeding at something, for instance.

    In discussing life’s matters, we’ve both agreed upon the fact that oftentimes we may be taken up entirely by emotion, to the point where even gazing at the stars opens our minds to an immensity of otherworldly interpretations. How amazing is that?

    Besides, we’re eager seekers of beauty in the little things and lovers of kindness. That depth in our mindset is what allows us to express everything so thoroughly, especially through writing and other kinds of art.

    What was supposed to be a wallowing session ended up giving us a different view of ourselves. Needless to say, we finished the conversation feeling way better than when we started it.

    See It for What It Is: Just A Trait

    About three years ago, something interesting came in the mail. One of my aunts resides in England, and she sends gifts every so often. This particular time, she had a special present for me.

    It was a book, but not just any book. It was a self-help book called The Highly Sensitive Person, written by Dr. Elaine N. Aron. It had highlighted passages and comments scribbled all over it, as if Auntie wanted me to pay special attention to them.

    I might have rolled my eyes at first, but that’s part of my proud nature. Also, never in my seventeen years had I read a self-help book, so I decided to give it a reluctant try in case she asked about it later and I had to whip off a review. I started reading, and to my surprise, it felt like staring at a mirror.

    The book, first published in 1996, promotes the de-stigmatization around sensitive people, often mislabeled as weak, shy, and even antisocial, to name a few labels. It has offered me the best advice I’ve been given, from someone who has been through similar struggles.

    It counts on interviews with hundreds of people like me—perhaps like you, too—who have offered their experience as HSPs. Their stories prove that we are not alone and that being sensitive makes us unique in our own ways; we just have to make an effort to see that amidst the haze of society telling us we’re somehow abnormal.

    I can relate to my aunt on many levels, especially because we have strikingly similar personalities, which is always a recurrent topic during family reunions. At some point in her life she had the same doubts I do now—she felt unfitting and lost. She gets me, and she made sure I had that in mind by giving me that book.

    “Think about the impact on you of not being the ideal for your culture. It has to affect you—not only how others have treated you but how you have come to treat yourself.” ~Elaine N. Aron. Ph. D.

    For the first time in a while, I accepted my wholeness. I felt an overdue relief in being myself, comforted to know that being dysthymic and highly sensitive by no means indicates than I’m worse than everybody else.

    I’m still coming to terms with my fragile essence. I haven’t left therapy or the medications, and I may need them for the rest of my life, who knows? Even so, in researching alternative ways to cope with my anxiety I stumbled across several posts that swore by meditation, so I decided to give it a shot—and it worked like magic!

    I meditate for at least ten minutes daily, and the practice has helped diminish common anxious and depressive symptoms, such as a fast heartbeat and racing thoughts. This happens due to meditation’s scientifically suggested power to positively modify our brains—yes, it’s possible! If combined with consistent daily activities such as exercising or anything that sparks creativity, it becomes a strong healing method.

    The good news is, my sensitivity has ceased to be a problem. Whenever it wants in, I won’t slam the door, I’ll just invite it in for a cup of coffee instead. Maybe acceptance is all it needs to rest cozy in my chest.

  • Don’t Confuse My Bad Days as a Sign of Weakness

    Don’t Confuse My Bad Days as a Sign of Weakness

    My bad days

  • It’s Okay to Need a Little Help

    It’s Okay to Need a Little Help

    We Can Help

    “Don’t look for someone who will solve all your problems. Look for someone who won’t let you face them alone.” ~Unknown

    It’s 2004, and I awake in a student college in Melbourne, Australia. This comes as no surprise, because, at the time, I lived there.

    I groggily stagger to the shared bathroom on my floor, to perform my morning washing routine. There’s nothing unusual about my lavatory procedure, so I’ll omit the details, for all of our benefits.

    So far, so good. Already I’m full of optimism for today.

    As I wash my hands, I glimpse myself in the mirror and notice my majestic, messy bed-head.

    I often sport a disturbing, motley “I’ve just fallen out of bed” look for entire days, as I forget to check in the morning that I look sufficiently acceptable to go outside.

    I usually see myself in a mirror just before I go to bed, and invariably feel retrospectively ashamed that I’ve had tufts of hair beaming in assorted directions since I woke up.

    On this day, however, I notice my unconventional tufty hair and take immediate, drastic action, slapping the top of my head with my wet hands to encourage my mane into an acceptable shape. I stride out of the bathroom, feeling satisfied.

    Universe 0, Neil 1. One triumph already: not appearing for the entire day as if I have just fallen out of bed. What an excellent start to the day.

    Sadly, I only take a few steps before the soapy water I unthinkingly applied to my head pours into my eyes, burning them immediately with painful chemicals.

    Still, no need to panic. I’m an adult, I can handle a little soapy water. I am aware of the process for fixing a foamy intrusion into the eyes. As per the plan, I don’t even break stride, simply rubbing my eyes to remove the water.

    Unfortunately, this only makes things worse. It feels like I dislodged my contact lenses and got the soap in behind them. Now everything really burns.

    Okay. There’s no need for alarm. I simply need a new plan. I’m already most of the way to my bedroom, so I can slip in there, find the sink, wash my eyes out, replace my contacts with chemical-free fresh lenses, and then we’re all sorted. I’m still destined for victory today.

    I take another step toward my bedroom door, eyes screwed tightly shut.

    I fumble for my keys and pull them hurriedly out of my trouser pocket. Sadly, in my haste they slip out of my hand and fly somewhere into the dark void in front of me.

    Uh-oh.

    I squint my eyes open slightly and shut them immediately. I can’t see a thing through the caustic chemical tears. What the hell is in this soap, I probably would wonder if I weren’t so distracted by the agony behind my eyelids.

    Right. Time for a new “new plan.” The corridor is small, so it can’t take long to locate my keys, get into my room, find the sink, wash the soap out of my eyes, replace the contacts, and then—finally—victory!

    No need to cancel the celebratory parade for how awesome today will be. Yet.

    I scrabble on the floor for a moment, then another moment, and then another slightly longer moment.

    I seriously can’t find my keys. In making the “new new plan” I significantly underestimated how much I rely on the ability to see.

    The discomfort of squatting and bungling around is adding to the stinging in my eyes, and I realize my new highest priority needs to be getting rid of this infernal soap. 

    (With hindsight, this should probably have been the priority from the beginning.)

    Taking stock again, I come up with a new “new new plan.”

    I’ll go back to the original shared bathroom and wash my eyes out there. Then, using my regained power of vision, it will be trivial to find my keys. After that, I can let myself into my room, replace my lenses, and finally I can leave for breakfast. Still victorious. Definitely.

    I stand up, face toward the bathroom, and charge ahead at maximum eagerness.

    SMACK!

    I run face first into the wall, having apparently completely lost track of which way I was facing.

    I crumple to the floor, like a sack of idiotic potatoes.

    At this point, I finally admit that I am defeated.

    I have no new plans. No “new new plans.” No plans of any kind whatsoever. My face hurts from hitting the wall with it. My eyes hurt from the chemicals I foolishly rubbed into them. I cannot solve either problem.

    As I lie there, blankly failing to handle the situation, I hear the voice of the pretty girl from down the corridor:

    “Do you… do you need any help?”

    Yes. Yes, I need help.

    And not just with simple things like a morning routine.

    I’ve suffered from anxiety all my life. And the main lesson I’ve learned is that keeping it to myself only makes it worse.

    Yet I’m less willing to ask for help when I need it most because I don’t want to look weak. I’m scared of the judgment it might bring.

    But I’ve found that, in reality, people judge us far less harshly than we do ourselves. Being honest about needing help makes us seem strong, not weak.

    Whether it’s a major problem like daily anxiety, or a silly thing like getting soap in my eyes, I’ve learned that it’s crucial to just be honest about it with someone I trust.

    Whatever you may be suffering through, there are those who would happily suffer through it with you, if only you’d let them. Maybe you know them, maybe you haven’t met them yet.

    But, trust me, you’re better off seeking help than trying to do it all alone.

    We can help image via Shutterstock

  • Overcoming the Fear of Vulnerability and Unlocking Your Power

    Overcoming the Fear of Vulnerability and Unlocking Your Power

    Open Heart

    “To share your weakness is to make yourself vulnerable; to make yourself vulnerable is to show your strength.” ~Criss Jami

    Wanting to avoid pain and shield ourselves from it is natural—and, by the way, completely not possible, because as we close up to protect ourselves against pain, we also block out the light that reflects from it.

    Despite our best efforts, the boundaries that we’ve built around our hearts to protect us from feeling pain, discomfort, and hurt are the very chains that keep us tethered to it, disallowing us from feeling the opposites—joy, love and passion.

    Only in embracing our true nature, at our deepest core level, as emotional, vulnerable, and feeling beings are we able to tap our resilient inner strength.

    Have you ever tried to cross your arms in front of your heart while smiling or laughing at the same time? Try it. It feels weird. You may be aware that you’re smiling or laughing, but you sure don’t feel like it.

    Or, try throwing your arms up wide with a big open heart like you just crossed the finish line of an amazing race, and see if you can wear a frown or angry face. It simply feels unnatural. This is because we are feeling beings and our heart center is our core feeling center.

    When we block our heart, we block the feelings as well, and when we open our heart it feels unnatural to be anything but joyous.

    Our feelings are indicators of our current alignment with our soul’s path and higher energy source.

    I used to stuff feelings down deep, especially negative ones, not understanding that by doing so I was suppressing my unique intuitive guidance system.

    Feelings are there to teach us something about ourselves and reveal to us our true desires. It is only in a state of vulnerability, when we drop the armor around our hearts, that we can truly access these feelings and lessons to become centered, strong, and wise.

    My early childhood and adolescent years were largely dysfunctional. I grew up broke for the most part in an unstable household, where my father, who was an alcoholic, was also verbally or physically abusive.

    This environment imprinted on my young developing mind a perception that the world was difficult. I viewed the world through a lens smudged of struggle, and this perception became my reality as I felt I had to muscle my way through life in in an effort to not end up like my past.

    As a result, I spent the better part of three decades unconsciously building walls to protect myself from these fears and insecurities I knew as a child.

    Vulnerability meant emotional pain, so I developed thick skin growing up. From the vantage point of others, I had a good front of just being strong-willed and determined; and my fear of being judged by my dysfunctional upbringing was somewhat minimalized.

    As I made my way through life, I’ve always seemed happy enough, pretty enough, and smart enough, yet I grew acutely aware there was a happiness ceiling I was hitting my head on, fully conscious of the fact that it simply was not high enough.

    While I experienced happiness regularly, when it came to feeling joyful, there seemed to be a disconnect. I was too guarded and allowed myself to become hardened, stiff, and in a state of resistance.

    I thought that in order to be strong and powerful I had to be tough and put up a good fight, putting up protective layers of resistance. Ironically, in an effort to be strong, I was giving up my power.

    My happiness was largely contingent on other things happening or not happening as if it was out of my control. I now can attribute this disconnect as a result of resisting my true authentic nature and not staying open and vulnerable to the calling of my inner Higher Self, due to the layers of walls and blockages I have built.

    There came a point in my life after my father’s traumatic death to cancer when I decided I no longer would accept going through my days hardened, disconnected, or defensive. I had not fully forgiven him at the time of his passing, but I made a conscious choice then, and now it’s a daily evolution, where I choose to surrender to my vulnerability instead of hiding from it.

    Through yoga, meditation, and a lot of conscious intention setting, I began to shed these walls one layer at a time, revealing each time the softer side that I’ve always known to be a core part of my being—the side that is moldable, connected and resides with a deep inner knowing; the part that changes, grows and allows.

    These days I choose to take my power back and wear my heart on my sleeve, where it belongs. This doesn’t mean I’m overly emotional, but I do allow myself to be vulnerable, to drop my resistance and feel my way through my experiences, reflecting as needed in pursuit for higher meaning behind anything that would otherwise cause me pain.

    I’m acutely aware that everything is fleeting or temporary, and because of this I try my best not to take things for granted. With this awareness I feel I have no choice but to completely absorb the moment by allowing myself to be vulnerable and truly deeply feel.

    The challenge lies in discerning what beliefs no longer serve you and understanding that, while you have emotions and deep feelings, you are not these emotions or feelings, and rather they are there to help guide your life’s experiences.

    If we move through life mistaking vulnerability for weakness, or build walls to hide from our vulnerability, we stifle the fruition of the very experiences we long for, and true love, joy, passion, and freedom will fall painfully at our feet, appearing out of reach.

    To be vulnerable is to be in a state of trust and courage. From this state, all things are possible and our drive, willpower, and strength align with who we really are, not what we fear.

    Any strength that lies outside of vulnerability is a façade built by fear. It must be shed to allow our completely raw and unrefined truth to shine through, so we can deeply experience all of life’s’ beautiful sharp edges.

    Joyful woman image via Shutterstock

  • Emotions Are a Strength, Not a Design Flaw

    Emotions Are a Strength, Not a Design Flaw

    Teardrop

    “Eyes that do not cry, do not see.” ~Swedish Proverb

    Just get over it. Don’t be so sensitive. You should toughen up and grow a thicker skin…

    I’ve heard this advice so much over my life, but I’ve never seen it make anyone happy.

    Advised to toughen up with thicker skins so we can protect ourselves, we end up just bottling it up inside and pushing away how we feel, hoping it looks like we’re strong.

    It’s like trying to avoid our own shadow. We believe it’s gone because it’s behind us, but it’s totally visible to anyone else who cares to look.

    Instead of becoming stronger, this denying and rejecting behavior makes us more susceptible to danger, more fearful and wary, resulting in confusion and unhappiness, because we’ve thrown away the information we need to survive and thrive.

    The Rhino’s Lesson

    While I was in South Africa, volunteering for an animal conversation charity, I found myself in close proximity to a wild rhino in the early hours of the morning.

    She was beautiful.

    With only a few feet between us and little shrub to block her path, she did not seek to fight or flee; she just stood there.

    Although rhinos are quite blind, they have other strong senses, including smell, hearing, taste, external touch, and instinctual felt sense (internal and external nervous systems).

    They have thick, layered, armored skin that protects them from sharp, thorny bushes, but they are not insensitive and tough.

    In fact, their survival and ability to thrive is wholly dependent on their sensitivity.

    She didn’t run or charge because she didn’t feel I was a threat.

    Sensitivity Is Power

    Sensitivity means to be connected and aware of all our senses.

    Our bodies are descendants of mammals, so we’re sensory beings.

    This means, like the rhino, we are designed to use sight, hearing, smell, taste, touch, and felt sense to navigate the world around us and survive.

    This sensory information creates an internal response to everything, including danger and safety, separation and bonding, otherwise known as emotions.

    It’s a fact: We’re all emotional, male and female!

    Unlike our animal cousins, though, we have an evolved conscious awareness to this emotional information, so they become defined as feelings—the language of emotions to which we attach judgment.

    Instead of responding naturally and appropriately to this navigation system, we stress ourselves out, worry, shame, analyze, get embarrassed, get scared, get stuck, don’t act, ignore, or do the total opposite of what our body tells us to do.

    The rhino does not question the sensory information the brain collects; it just acts appropriately either by running away and avoiding the danger or standing still to assess and inquire.

    Or, it might run toward it, threatening with the full force of their size, strength, weight, and their strong, sharp horn. They don’t do this because they are bad tempered but because they must still protect their well-being, even though they are naturally shy, curious, and non-predatory.

    Confusing Safety and Danger

    Our brain continually processes sensory information to inform our responses to a situation or person by encouraging slowing down, moving toward or further away.

    Teaching us to ignore, shame, disregard, and disconnect from this emotional sensory information leaves us unarmed, unprotected, and unsafe. It’s like being in conversation but only talking, never listening, and assuming what the other person thinks and feels.

    The result:

    • We’re unaware of danger, so we don’t know how or when to protect ourselves.
    • We’re unaware or unsure if the people we choose to surround ourselves love, accept, and respect us, or are out to harm, belittle, or control us.
    • We lose the ability to know what is right for our happiness, peace, and love.
    • Our brains rewire to associate fear and danger with safety, and love and kindness with danger and being unsafe, so we seek the wrong thing.

    This would be like the rhino ignoring her survival senses, walking up to a pack of lions, and saying, “Hey, I’m just as big as you, can I come hang out…”

    How A War Zone Becomes Your Norm

    This behavior is most obvious in adults who experienced abusive childhoods or were parented inconsistently by alcoholics, drug addicts, or the mentally unstable, and if they were conditioned to be good girls and boys and shamed for expressing anger, desire, or tears.

    In these environments, a child absorbs the message “Don’t express how you truly feel.”

    If they accepted the sensory information they received, they would have had to accept that their home environment, where they needed to be cared and protected for survival, actually felt unsafe and rejecting to live in.

    It’s unimaginable for a child to acknowledge that the parents who they love might not be safe, even if they come to see a difference in other families.

    They learn not to respond appropriately, as it would result in possible physical danger, punishment, and abandonment. So they disconnect, desensitize, do as they are told, try to please to make it safer, and stop trusting their feelings, because they lie and let them down.

    If they continue this behavior into adulthood, they will keep seeking out the familiar—hurtful, disappointing, painful, unstable, rejecting, or even dangerous relationships and circumstances, to mirror the feelings of childhood.

    Getting Emotionally Reconnected

    I used think women who cried were pathetic. I thought they should just get over it and pull themselves together, as this was how I saw my own emotions.

    Every feeling I had was buried away, unspoken, and unshared, branded as either a sign of weakness (as regards to crying) or unacceptable (if it was anger). I considered every other feeling bad and dangerous.

    My exterior had toughened up until I was cold and as hard as an ice queen.

    I chose abusive lovers, friends, and bosses over and over again, even though when I met them all I had the same uncomfortable, withdrawing feelings. I just ignored them and believed I must be wrong. And I jumped into, at worst, dangerous and, at best, rejecting and unloving environments.

    Part of my self-discovery was learning to get out of my judgmental head and back into my body, and trusting its natural ability to know my boundaries and how to protect myself, so I could begin to make the right choices for my health, well-being, and happiness.

    I sought people who showed me how to demonstrate my emotions openly and gave me permission to feel angry and cry. I came to understand my body’s language, so, if I felt something, I got real and responded appropriately.

    If I felt happy and safe, I smiled.

    If I felt safe and laughed, I opened my mouth wide and laughed wholeheartedly from my belly.

    If someone tried to disrespect me, I called them on it or walked away.

    If I felt desire to touch and be touch, I trusted my intuition.

    No longer confused and distrusting of my sensitivity, I didn’t need to waste my energy fighting and denying how I felt.

    I was now open to love and intimacy, no longer terrified of it as dangerous, or afraid of rejection, because I felt safe in my ability to know and accept the truth.

    I was now listening to the whole conversation and all the information I was receiving, so that like the beautiful rhino I could own our greatest strength of all: our emotional instinct to navigate the wilderness and know who is part of our herd.

    Photo by Francesca Romana Correale

  • Vulnerability Is a Sign of Strength, Not Weakness

    Vulnerability Is a Sign of Strength, Not Weakness

    Letting Go

    “I now see how owning our story and loving ourselves through that process is the bravest thing that we will ever do.” ~Brene Brown

    I was raised to be determined. I was raised to put my head down and solider on during tough times, and I was raised to never be vulnerable, because being so meant you were weak.

    Whether these were the intended lessons, it’s hard to say, but somewhere deep inside that is how I interpreted the messages from those who had influence in my life.

    Throughout most of my life I carried these messages like suits of armor protecting me from invisible opponents, sure to strike when I least expected it.

    Each time I unbuckled the armor and exposed my raw, tender skin to what I thought vulnerability looked like, it was only a matter of time before I was left broken hearted, disappointed, or worse yet, full of shame and self-hate.

    Looking back on memories, I am reminded of a time when I fell madly in love, the type of love where you are brave, do not hold back, and lead with your heart.

    Unfortunately, I later discovered that the person I was involved with was leading two lives, and would be on “business trips” while they spent time with me and then the reserve with their other life.

    It all came crashing down after they “claimed” a death in the family, and when I called to give my condolences to the family, the supposed deceased family member answered the phone.

    The lessons I learned during these perceived attacks left me carrying a heavy imaginary backpack full of reasons as to why I could not be vulnerable.

    In my mind, this determination was a brave path to be walked alone, and it proved just how independent I was, unlike those who “needed” people in their life.

    It’s been a slow evolution from this point, which reached a low five years ago, to now. In fact, sometimes it has seemed so slow that I thought I was inching backward.

    With an instinct to push, question, and doubt, buying in to the vulnerability bandwagon has been a tough sell.

    Despite reading a plethora of self-help, transition, and any other inspiring books I could get my hands on, it never seemed to make a difference. Something just was not connecting inside of me.

    During a personal development course three years ago, the facilitator used an actual full backpack to show me what the weight of my self-defeating story felt like.

    He then had a group leader push down on the pack with the goal that I would eventually give in to the weight and to the story in my head that was holding me hostage.

    During the demonstration, I could feel the weight of the pack getting heavier, my legs shaking, my stomach muscles twitching with fatigue, and my head pounding from my tenacious spirit fighting desperately to hang on to my story of why vulnerability was bad, I was determined, and I didn’t need anyone. 

    After what seemed like an eternity, I did give in, and although I wish I could say it was like a light switch and I immediately embraced a new way of viewing and practicing vulnerability, that wasn’t the case.

    Over the last three years it has been more of a slow sunrise, and on days when I felt brave and could trust who I was connecting with, I was able to open myself up even for just a moment and let people in.

    I always thought it was my strength and determination that inspired people. However, what I have learned over the last five years is that those qualities in fact intimidated and kept people at a distance.

    When I felt my weakest—when I could hardly get out of bed and face the challenge of a new day after a relationship had ended or when I was laid off due to a company downsizing—I dug deep and found the courage to ask for help from very supportive friends and my running group teammates.

    I was overwhelmed with support, encouragement, and people saying how I was inspiring them in their own lives.

    During this year of significant change and transition, I am proud to say that I have not put the armor back on. Being open to my vulnerability has allowed me to connect with people on a new level and embrace life lessons I definitely would not have learned previously.

    In moments when I felt alone, digging deep, finding just an ounce of courage inside and asking for help, and admitting when I did not have an answer to a challenge I was facing has brought deeper, more meaningful relationships into my life.

    In addition, I am now developing a calm in my life that has allowed me to embrace a new level of happiness.

    Looking back on that demonstration with the backpack three years go, what I remember isn’t how long I resisted or even that I surrendered in the end. I remember how it inspired others who saw that I found the courage to give in and embrace what I feared the most after fighting so hard.

    Strength isn’t about fighting; sometimes it’s about letting go. Having the courage to be vulnerable, even when it feels insurmountable, is the first step on the journey to a wholehearted life.

    Photo by Beth Scupham

  • Why Letting Ourselves Be Weak Is Actually the Key to Becoming Strong

    Why Letting Ourselves Be Weak Is Actually the Key to Becoming Strong

    “To share your weakness is to make yourself vulnerable; to make yourself vulnerable is to show your strength.” ~Criss Jami

    “You have to be strong.”

    Those were five words I heard without end after my father was diagnosed with stage 4 colon cancer on Black Friday 2012—a day that couldn’t have been more aptly named.

    In the months following, I marched, ran, skipped, crept, stumbled, crawled, and dragged myself through the darkest valley of my life. This was uncharted territory. This was an unprecedented season for us.

    My dad was a fitness junkie, running and biking every morning, performing aerobics daily like a champ, and going for the occasional swim when the mood struck. The possibility of cancer had never arrested our attention—why would it?

    Like so many others, I believed I’d have my dad for decades to come, that I would see his salt-and-pepper hair gradually transform to powder white as the crinkles stretching from the corner of his eyes grew in number.

    The usual questions that plague souls affected by cancer surfaced, as if some clarion call had gone out to the nether world. Questions like:

    Will the surgery be successful? (It was.) Will the oncologist order chemotherapy? (He did.)

    When will this end? When will my dad know peace and strength again? When will our lives go back to normal?

    The answers to those questions were a long time coming, until my dad was moved to ICU and put on life support in early September 2013, his organs failing.

    “Be strong,” came that ceaseless whisper. “Be strong,” well-wishers said. “Be strong. Be strong. Be strong.”

    And in the nine months leading up to that ICU transfer, I had been strong. I had remained unmoved and unaffected by any bad news, choosing to believe in a different outcome—besides, one must yet hope.

    I was like the unshakeable lighthouse tower you often see in paintings, standing tall in the midst of a tumultuous storm, gray skies, roaring waves, and angry sea breeze everywhere.

    Then one day, the feat of being that strong tower was simply too much to bear. I’d built a dam to keep back the emotions that threatened to overwhelm me, but that dam couldn’t possibly stand the weight of those emotions forever. It gave way.

    I sobbed like I’d never sobbed before in my mother’s arms. And so long as we’re being honest, I’d say I sobbed every day thereafter.

    This expression I’d so feared, this display of vulnerability I had for so long resisted and avoided, had at long last caught up with me. Yet I felt no shame or embarrassment. I felt no anger with myself or disappointment in my supposed weakness.

    Instead, I felt other things.

    Release.

    Freedom.

    Peace.

    Love.

    It was then that I realized that in my efforts to be strong, I had been denying myself the very feelings I’d wanted to experience all along.

    Too often, we build walls around ourselves in the midst of grief, pain, or challenges, inflating ourselves up to be proud people who don’t need anyone’s help, people who are getting by just fine, people who are strong enough to weather the storm on their own.

    We close ourselves off to feeling anything in the name of self-preservation. We distance ourselves from emotions that scare us because of how weak, vulnerable, incapable, or unable they may make us seem to our loved ones.

    However, it’s only through allowing ourselves to embrace that weakness and feel those daunting emotions that we invite love in to strengthen us.

    It’s actually a beautiful thing for someone to be weak for that reason, because in that weakness, we rely and depend on others to build us up again, to make us strong, to comfort and encourage us.

    An incredible bond is established between you and another person when you embrace your weakness. In that moment, transparency, honesty, and open communication win.

    Not only have you both reached a new level of personal growth and grown in your intimacy, but you’ve also given that individual an incredible gift: the opportunity to demonstrate their friendship, loyalty, and love for you by being there, by being a friend, by being present, and by enacting love.

    When we bottle our emotions in and suppress them, however, never letting anyone see into our soul, then we are denying others an amazing opportunity to show up for us.

    We are denying our relationships the opportunity to expand, evolve, and grow to a new level. And we are essentially stopping the flow of love between us and others—life-saving love that has the potential to give us more strength than we ever thought possible.

    So I made the decision to embrace my emotions and whatever weaknesses happened to visit me, to welcome the vulnerable position that would put me in.

    If someone wanted to hold me while I cried, I let them.

    If someone wanted to be a listening ear, I spoke from the depths of my heart.

    If someone wanted to take me away from the hospital scene for a good meal, I didn’t decline the invitation.

    If someone asked me how I was doing, I answered with honesty, even if it meant admitting that I was hurting and devastated.

    Again and again, I felt the flow of love between myself and those around me. It was uplifting and intoxicating; empowering and encouraging. It was love like I’d never seen it in action before—the type of love that can only be perfected in our very weaknesses.

    I had a role model throughout it all: my dad.

    I don’t even wish I could tell you he faced cancer stone-faced and unmoved by the unending dirges of prognoses.

    Instead, when the pain was too much to bear, when the figurative nights were blackest, when there seemed to be no light penetrating the all-encompassing darkness of cancer, my dad would cry, he would pray for one normal day, and he would openly talk with me about the weakness he felt.

    But it wasn’t weakness I saw. In those moments, when he opened himself so entirely and became vulnerable before me, I saw only strength. I saw only courage. And on the morning my dad’s heart beat for the last time, the sun laying bricks of gold across his hospital room while I held his hand in mine, I saw only inspiring beauty.

    Even now, as I write this, it’s with tears painting trails down my face. I embrace what we might call weakness because I know now that it’s in my weakness that I find strength. It’s in my struggle that I find determination; it’s in my challenges that I find perseverance; and it’s in my vulnerability that I find love, peace, and the will to go on.

    Have you been spending too much time hiding behind walls in an effort to be strong? Have you been distancing yourself from others, fearing they will think you weak? Have you kept your emotions at arm’s length because they intimidate you, scare you, or fill you with uncertainties?

    It’s time to give yourself permission to feel. It’s time to embrace the very vulnerability you shun and in doing so, discover the love, joy, and peace that waits for you on the other side.

    In the end, it’s through our weaknesses that we become strong again.

    In loving memory of my dad, ‘Bear.’ 04-01-1952 – 09-15-2013 

  • Share Your Vulnerable Story: Find Strength by Letting Others In

    Share Your Vulnerable Story: Find Strength by Letting Others In

    Holding Hands

    “Pain is not a sign of weakness, but bearing it alone is a choice to grow weak.” ~Lori Deschene

    In February of 2011, I went to see my doctor because I was suffering from severe headaches that I figured were associated with using computers all day at my law job. After having a few tests, the doctor said that I wasn’t doing well and he suggested that I take a leave from work to focus on my health.

    The next few months, I found myself in and out of doctors’ offices, medical labs, and hospitals on a weekly basis. With a variety of tests already done, my doctor suggested we do an MRI of my brain. I went for my MRI in June of 2011.  

    Weeks passed by after my MRI, and assuming no news was good news, I made plans for my summer. I decided to have a change of scenery and went to San Francisco for a fun summer job that didn’t involve computer work.

    After a great summer there, I was in Toronto in late August for two weeks visiting my parents when I got a call from my neurologist in Vancouver.

    She told me I had a brain tumor.  

    The floor dropped beneath my feet, my heart sank, and my mind raced, contemplating how I would break this news to my parents. I put the phone down, walked into the kitchen, and I told them. We hugged and then we cried.

    In that moment, my life flashed before me. I was 28 years old, single, unemployed, and now, more lost than ever. I didn’t know if I would finish my law license, return to Vancouver, move back into my apartment, or when I would see my friends again.

    But, as it always does, life went on. (more…)

  • When You’re Pretending to Be Fine: 9 Tips to Deal and Heal

    When You’re Pretending to Be Fine: 9 Tips to Deal and Heal

    “Our strength grows out of our weaknesses.” ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

    I never thought I’d want to kill myself.

    All my life, I’d been a strong, independent woman, building a business from home, raising two wonderful sons, and staying happy and positive throughout.

    If you’d told me I’d one day consider taking my own life, I’d have laughed and said, “You’ve got me confused with someone else!”

    But after twenty years and two sons together, my husband and I decided to split up.

    So what? Separation and divorce are commonplace. You just cope with it like everyone else. I was strong, so not coping would mean I was weak.

    But it hurt and hurt and hurt. And eventually I just wanted to stop. I couldn’t put my boys through that, but I couldn’t see another way out. So, while pretending to everyone that I was fine, I thought about it. Seriously.

    What Do You Pretend?

    Coping with everything life throws at you is tough. 

    Juggling all your different roles, trying to be all things to all people, and “shoehorning” so much into every day.

    You and your needs aren’t even worth a mention on your very long to-do list.

    You feel guilty and inadequate and worry that someday all those plates you’re spinning will come crashing down. You’re an amazing somebody who often feels like an invisible and overwhelmed nobody. Feeling lost and alone, living in silent despair.

    Not always much fun being a grown-up, is it?  (more…)

  • Are You Too Nice? How to Be Kind and Be Good to Yourself

    Are You Too Nice? How to Be Kind and Be Good to Yourself

    Nice girl

    “We must each lead a way of life with self-awareness and compassion, to do as much as we can. Then, whatever happens we will have no regrets.” ~Dalai Lama

    I finally decided that I would call my friend. By then, our lunch plans wouldn’t have made any sense since it was getting close to midnight.

    She answered and started speaking immediately. “Hey, I lost track of time. I’ve been running a lot of errands today. Oh, did you hear about this new job opportunity I’m getting? No? Let me tell you about it…”

    I felt a wave of emotion within me.

    This was the third time she had flaked on me this week, and it always ended with me calling her to find out what had happened. I noticed myself looking down at my feet at the end of our conversation, holding the phone in my hand as I said cheerily, “No, it’s totally fine! Don’t worry, I completely understand. I hope you have a good night!”

    When I was younger, I would tell people proudly that one of my strong points was that I would never get mad.

    “Have I ever been angry?” I would ask, knowing full well my reputation for being mellow. However, as time went on, I began to lose track of what being nice really meant.

    When faced with challenges or confrontations with other people, I would automatically be agreeable, regardless of what I was feeling. However, on the inside I felt depressed and anxious.

    I didn’t allow myself to share my thoughts and feelings, and this finally came to a climax when I was unable to speak my mind during my four-year relationship.

    For me, being agreeable had transformed into something ugly and submissive, where at times I didn’t recognize myself. During arguments, I would attempt to be accommodating; however, when alone, I was caught up in self-pity and resentment.

    I didn’t recognize this then, but I had made myself feel completely powerless. As I started to think about my day-to-day experiences with other people, I realized that I was being taken for granted.

    People assumed that I would not speak out if I were upset. Whether I liked it or not, I had limited myself, and was having less genuine relationships with others. (more…)