“My fear had no variety to it, no depth, no substance, no texture. I noticed that my fear never changed, never delighted, never offered a surprise twist or an unexpected ending. My fear was a song with only one note— only one word, actually— and that word was ‘STOP!’” -Elizabeth Gilbert, Big Magic
I’ve spent a lot of time being brave lately. Bravery, for me, doesn’t look like slaying dragons or jumping out of airplanes. It’s not showy. It’s quiet and simple. And it’s hard as hell. Every act of bravery is a pulling, an unravelling of a knot that I, admittedly, allowed to get really tangled and unmanageable. For a lot of reasons. Because of Covid. Because I graduated college and didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life, or turned 25, or had a really bad mental health year, or started my Saturn Return. Because being small and quiet is easier than being big and noticeable, because I started to question my own boundaries and whether or not they were “too much.” Because my body changed and fluctuated and I wasn’t sure how I fit into my skin, because my skin felt different than it had a decade ago. Sure, because of the internet, too. And the patriarchy. The government. Fluctuating political landscapes— because I was being told I was “too much” and too loud, and too many acquaintances unfollowed me on Instagram because I was “too political.”
The list of reasons to stay small could span miles. I could fill one of those old timey papyrus scrolls with my missives and read the decree in the town square.
I was stifling myself. And I could feel it, but I wasn’t sure how to fix it. As evidence, here’s an excerpt from a poem I wrote near the end of 2021.
Think of your plants, how you water them,
They were all tangled up in each other, dying, suffocating,
This squad of monsteras you love so much,
You dote on them like babies, this thing you’ve kept alive
You untangled them like a necklace rolling around in the bottom of your purse
They needed the space to grow, to separate
Now you water them in sun-dappled morning
the kitchen window that looks out on the lake
You stroke their unfurling new leaves and you say,
“Wow, you’re doing such a good job, so beautiful
So strong
I am so proud of you”
See? Like you…
Just like you
Still hunkered down in the pot you came home in,
From the front end of Wegmans, an impulse purchase
Your leaves are wilting and it’s time to prune
I tried to blame other people, and for a while, that worked. I blamed my job. I blamed my relationship. I blamed a millennial loneliness epidemic because of a lack of third spaces and people don’t know their neighbors anymore and, oh no, that’s out of my control! But eventually, the blame came back around to me. Maybe blame is the wrong word. Blame implies that I’m doing something wrong— it lacks compassion. I decided something needed to change. In the words of Elizabeth Gilbert, in a book I’ve reread many times, Big Magic, “I finally realized that my fear was boring.”
Ways I’ve been brave
My boss needed to switch lunch breaks and I happened to be wearing soft pants, so on a whim, I tried out a midday yoga class on campus. If I’d had enough time to rethink it, I’m sure I would have chickened out, but on shaking legs, feeling embarrassed to be carrying a yoga mat1 through throngs of college kids, I entered a building I’ve never been in and found my way to an airy dance studio with cement floors. I left my boots in a cubby in the hallway, and it reminded me of kindergarten. Chiming music played— I’m sure it would have been calming under different circumstances. I set my yoga mat up on the far side of the room, I sat quietly and breathed. You’re supposed to do that, in yoga, so I felt okay not attempting conversation with semi-familiar faculty. And when the class began, I felt okay. I knew the moves, and I kept my eyes closed, trying to focus on my breathing instead of what the person to my left was doing. I had to leave five minutes early to make it back to work, and as I skirted along the back edge of the studio, a woman in the back row gave me a dirty look. I felt bad and stupid. I tried to tell myself I wasn’t doing anything wrong. I tried to turn it around, well, clearly she needed that extra ten minutes in savasana if that’s her attitude, but that felt bad, too, so I just tried to drop it. And yes, it was almost enough to keep me from ever going back, but I did eventually, and the second time was better. I took a coworker who’d never done yoga before2, and the class was more intermediate. We picked a spot closer to the door. I felt good, not worried about anyone else looking at me and finding me lacking. The instructor corrected one of my poses, and I didn’t crumble under her gentle criticism. Afterward, my coworker said to me, “For an hour, I can’t think about work. I’m so focused on the poses that I don’t have room in my brain for anything else.”
I took myself on a coffee and reading date on a Sunday morning while my husband slept in. It was rainy and cold, so I almost chickened out but I didn’t. I panicked at the register, worrying that it would be weird if I just got a latte and nothing else, so I bought a cinnamon roll that I didn’t want and that was way too sticky to eat. The only available seat was a low, uncomfortable couch in the front window. My husband’s friend and his wife were there, and I wasn’t sure if they’d recognize me without my husband as an accessory, so I kind of avoided eye contact3. I couldn’t get comfortable on the couch and now matter how many times people out in the world say no one is paying any attention to you, they’re too worried about themselves, it’s impossible to believe it. In my mind, everyone at this coffee shop thought my reading looked performative and my outfit was all wrong for the circumstance. Eventually, my husband’s friend left and I took their table, abandoning my book and trying to journal instead. My pen shook a little in my hand. My body wound up like a clock, my shoulders were tensed up to my ears. I couldn’t think straight and just sort of word vomited, but it helped. At the table across from me, a girl worked on her laptop with an empty, watery iced coffee in front of her. She reached into her backpack and pulled out a glass container with yogurt from home, followed by a spoon, also from home. The women to my right loudly discussed one’s colonoscopy. It felt like noticing things was proof of my fear of being seen. I got a pistachio oat milk latte and it was really good. I threw the cinnamon roll away without eating it.
I joined Bad on Paper’s Geneva group4, and signed on for a writer’s group that was starting. I was a week or two late joining, so I felt out of place. I felt the familiar uncomfortableness of a large group, feeling like I don’t belong, pulling back and ostracizing myself before anyone else gets a chance to ostracize me. A bad habit. One that’s difficult to push against. You’re not doing anything wrong by being here, I reminded myself, You’re allowed to take up space. You’re here for the same reason as everyone else. This should have been easier. I was safe behind my computer screen. But sharing my writing feels vulnerable, like rolling over and exposing my soft underbelly to the sharp knife of commentary. What if I’ve been fooling myself and I’m a terrible writer? What if everyone hates this novel I’ve worked so tirelessly on for almost three years? In my ugliest moments, I thought, as long as someone else has written something worse, I’m good. At which point, I would exit whatever submission I was reading and take a break, because that line of thinking doesn’t serve anyone. It doesn’t make them a better writer and it doesn’t make me a better critique partner. I have so much insecurity about this— fear that I’m not as talented as I think I am, if all of these people I see are talented enough to make it. But the truth is, whether I’m the best doesn’t matter5. Those people, the ones I seethe with jealousy over, have put themselves out there, embraced the unknown, allowed themselves to be seen. And I’m sure you can guess, what I’m really jealous of is their ability to do that without fear.
I’d like to say every experience boosted my confidence, made me feel powerful and ready to get out there and ask to pet every dog I pass on the sidewalk, introduce myself to strangers, speak up for myself— or whatever it is really brave people do in their day to day lives. Mostly it went like this: Okay, well, I did thing and it was scary but I’m still in one piece. I was anxious the whole time so I didn’t really enjoy it, but that’s okay. And then I took a nap. Or scrolled on my phone while disassociating for awhile.
A small accomplishment is still worth celebrating. So I celebrate these seemingly tiny wins and try to remember why I’m pushing myself out of my limited comfort zone to begin with. Because I need room to grow. Because I’m happier when I’m bigger and more present in the world. Because I’m taking things one step at a time. Because when I ask myself what I really really want, the small voice inside of me doesn’t name material goods or high paying jobs or extravagant trips to Tulum with a friend group fifteen-deep.
The voice says to sit on a patio in the sun, have a snack and read a book or to take a pottery class or to take myself on more writer’s dates. As much as I love the people in my life, I’m comfortable in my own company— but my company is limited if I can’t get myself out of the house. I want to go to the museum without waiting for someone else to be ready, to spend as long as I want staring at sweeping landscape paintings, and skip over portraits because I find them boring. To not have to compromise about where to go to lunch, or talk about anything when I’d rather be writing something down in my notes app. To have an experience that is just for me, one I don’t have to share with anyone else, even someone I love.
I’m not interested in exposure therapy. I’m not going to run for city council or start filming TikTok dance videos on a crowded street or stand in the town square with a megaphone, loudly proclaiming my political beliefs. I’m starting small. And maybe when my fear gets smaller, my wants will get bigger. And, hopefully, so will I.
The yoga mat in question has lived under my desk at work for over a year, patiently waiting for me to gain the courage to go to a class after work.
It turns out, doing things with another person is infinitely easier, but not nearly as brave.
If you’re reading this, sorry Kevin and Ally!
And for the record, of course I’m not the best! But I don’t have to be. Best isn’t even on my radar, it’s not even a goal. So who put it in my head that I should throw in the towel if I don’t have the hope of being the best?