let's talk vulnerability
Well I'd completed my first practice session and so far this openness and vulnerability thing was working out. Despite the extreme discomfort, I was seeing glimpses of what life could look like. A life in which I was really showing up and being seen was one that I knew I wanted. I knew that the more vulnerable and authentic I could be, the easier I could shed the weight of perfection that I'd carried around most of my life. But I had just put the seed of vulnerability into the ground and the little leaves were just barely starting to sprout. There was going to be a lot of watering, feeding, and tending ahead of me required to grow this new plant.
My own experiences with vulnerability are time markers of my life that started young. One of these was during my 8th grade year in school. We all know Junior High School is the pinnacle of insecurity, self-doubt, and adolescent hazards. And, to be honest, if you don't agree, had a wonderful 7th and 8th grade experience full of friends and fun and have no idea what I'm talking about.....well I'm not sure we can be friends. My Jr High experience was a simply dreadful one. Being my true self wasn't really something on my radar. What I wanted, as most pubescents do, was to be liked and accepted. I wanted to feel a sense of belonging and was going to do pretty much everything I could do to make that happen (within limits you guys remember I am a rule follower, goody-two-shoes). I wasn't popular and didn't have many friends. I had a couple friends from church but they weren't especially "ride or die" when we were out in public. The others were mostly acquaintances that I'd been in school with since 4th grade. This is all to say, I was thrilled when I received an invitation to a Halloween party at the house of one of the most popular boys in the school. It was in the "rich" neighborhood and would take place in his garage with a DJ and dancing and endless snacks and no parents. Everyone was talking about it!
I didn't have much time to figure out a costume and we didn't have much money. But still my mother dutifully and enthusiastically pulled out the tub from the hall closet containing what we had available. I knew I needed a real costume. I couldn't just show up with a half hearted attempt to such a major event in my life that would most certainly catapult me into popularity and therefore solve all of my problems. Sounds perfectly logical.
Wait, it gets better.
It was determined the best costume option we had was a giant bunny suit my older brother had worn in a local theater production. Think Bugs Bunny with a hint of Eeyore. Not only that but my sweet mom and I decided it would be even better if we stuffed some pillows into it to make me a fat bunny. Here is the point in the story where I remind you that I was NOT cool in 8th grade. Just in case that wasn't obvious.
The time arrived and my dad dropped me off outside the house with a "have a good time!" and plans to return in a few hours to collect me again. So there I went, by myself, following the balloons and the sound of Depeche Mode around the side of the house to my future. I nervously walked out of the sunlight, through the open door and into the darkness of the garage. I don't know the exact number of seconds it takes for ones eyes to adjust from full sun into darkness, but that's about how much time I had to realize that every single other female at that party was dressed as every possible version of Madonna or Cindy Lauper. My whole world tilted. I may as well have been standing there naked. (I look back now and laugh as I imagine the silhouette of a giant obese bunny walking through that door and how that must have looked).
This vulnerability was so fierce I could almost taste it in my mouth. There wasn't pointing and laughing. I won't pretend it was that awful. But there was staring, awkward half smiles, and whisper giggles from various corners of the room. The way I saw it I had two choices: 1) run outside to a neighbor's house and ask to use their phone to call home for someone to come pick me up again right away or 2) accept the situation and try to survive the discomfort
I chose to stay.
I wish I could say that my 12 year old self saw the power of showing up and confidently saying "This is me! I'm here and I'm worthy!". In reality, my choice was to stay because it was overruled by my fear of how much worse it would be if I ran out of there wiping away tears with my giant carrot. (this is a true part of the story. I was actually carrying a large carrot as a costume prop). So I stayed. I am currently squirming in my seat just recalling my fragile pre-teen self who turned a bright shade of red and felt her armpits squirt violently. I want to hug little Emmy who shuffled around in a corner so as to be obscure about whether she was actually dancing or just fidgety. I want to put my arm around the young lady killing an obscene amount of time at the soda station trying to "decide" which can to grab. But I also shed a tear for that awkward looking girl who said "yes" when a nice boy asked her to dance a slow song (it was Eternal Flame by the Bangles for those who want a lovely little shot of nostalgia) and who laughed along with him when her fat pillow belly kept bumping him around. I want to do a happy dance for the girl laughing, by the end of the night, near the donut table with a few of her schoolmates.
That girl was brave, even when she didn't want to be. That kid survived and she showed up. She was one tiny baby step closer to recognizing that she deserves to be here; ALL of her.
She is my inspiration as I fertilize and water and put out into the sun my plant of authenticity. That little badass is reminding me that it's time to get it together and show up right now. Even when it's scary. Even when I'd rather not, but thanks.
Even when I quit my job and tell my boss -- and good friend -- the true reason.
Even when I answer honestly to a close friend's question of "What's going on with you?" despite the fact that we are in the middle of lunch rush hour at my favorite cafe and I have a 98.5% chance of crying.
Even when I choose to speak out loud, for the first time, my fears and insecurities with no guarantee of the outcome.
Scary, scary, scary.
But there is a risk assessment that our wise and experienced vulnerability researcher, Brene, reminds us we need to make. We can either let go of what people think or we can let go of who we are.
Well I'm not sure I'm willing to do that.
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