In the search for myself, I have overlooked the wisdom of my mother. Her ever-appropriate warning that life is short, so I better learn to love where I am or get my shit together so I can love where I’m going makes more sense the farther I walk away from the life I used to live. The farther I move from fear. I have always held a deep curiosity for the world, for why we stay where we are and how we change. How some of us forget to continue growing. The day-to-day struggle to survive transcends our will to become the best version of ourselves and we stay small.
There is some component of fear here. Fear of failure, and less often discussed, the fear that we just might succeed. We know all too well that a common reason to avoid taking risks is the self-deprecating soundtrack telling us not to bother. That inner critic that whispers lies about your worth and reminds you of every mistake you’ve ever made used to be where I placed blame. But a revelation I’ve had since my sober life and mental health have drastically improved is that it’s not the fear of failing that often stops me from trying something new.
It’s the fear that I might succeed.
It’s safe to say I didn’t try because I knew I’d fail. It saves me from exposing the part of my heart that thinks “I can…and I don’t know if I’m ready.” Maybe the risk is in the vulnerability. Admitting that I am afraid of entirely becoming the person I know I have the potential to be. Why?
(I am quite literally working this out as I write so forgive me as I stumble through possibilities.)
Is it a fear of having to work harder?
I’ve learned that the payoff is greater when I struggle a bit for what I want. The harder I have to work, the more I feel a sense of accomplishment when I achieve my goal. For months I worked on a difficult arm balance in yoga. My yoga teacher made Eka Pada Koundinyasana look as simple as sitting cross-legged. But the possibility of hovering both legs off the floor in a split, while in push-up position, seemed far beyond the realm of possible. This pose, often referred to as “flying splits,” requires a ton of upper body strength and perfectly negotiated balance, neither of which come easily to me. But instead of laughing and saying, “never going to happen, ” I started doing pushups.
After a few months of working on my balance and adding pushups to every chaturanga, I was able to lift my toes off the floor. A few weeks (and face plants) later, I did it. Sweat pouring off my face and arms quivering under my weight, I held myself in a position I thought was impossible. I was buzzing with pride. My heart felt light and my mind was calm. I wouldn’t have noticed if 50 people were watching or I was alone, I was fully in my body and focused on what it could do. The hard work makes me feel healthy, so I don’t think fear of putting in more effort is why I doubt myself.
Is it a matter of responsibility? Accountability? Knowing if I try and succeed, I will be out of reasons not to commit to whatever the challenge might be?
Fear of the follow through.
This tracks a little more. The threat of not having a choice comes to mind. Feeling like I can’t change my mind. What if after I achieve this goal, I realize the way life was before worked better? Even as I write this, it seems less and less rational, but isn’t that usually where the problems hide? Just beyond the sight of what makes sense.
I’ve always hated the tightness of feeling trapped. Turtlenecks and necklaces that clasp too tight. Interstates with closed exits and locked doors of any kind. Medication I could never quit feels all too much like being cemented into addiction. In fact, the proposition that addiction is an eternal sentence of a disease with no cure scared me to the core (and led me find an empowering recovery program that better suited my beliefs). I avoid people who refuse to question their political stance (Trumpers and Lumpers – liberal fanatics who judge before seeking to understand). Relationships that lack an equal say sound like a life of dispirited submission and an authority that imposes unchecked and unfair sentences.
Perhaps I’m afraid to take the proverbial next step because I have not yet severed tightness from making the decision that I can do more. Part of this is the irrational belief that whatever step I take, is the direction I must go. That changing my mind is no longer an option. Of course, it is. If I take a risk, try something new, and it doesn’t work, the distance to return to that which is familiar is only as far as my memory. What’s more, if I take a chance and it feels expansive, if I feel more open and breathe a little easier, it only means I’ve found my way.
Moving forward.
Why am I talking about taking steps and moving forward? I have growth on my mind. The future feels like it’s close enough to touch and I don’t want to fear how it will feel to breathe it in. I’m flirting with when I take the leap of faith in myself. When I feel I’ve offered myself enough compassion and grace to make the move free of fear.
Potential and possibility have replaced self-doubt and constriction. Where I once saw limitations, I now understand my strength. I want more than to settle – at work, with lovers and friends, as mother, and mostly within myself. “Good enough” is no longer an option. I deserve the best version of living this life offers. It’s invigorating to shake off the dead weight of fear and I will continue to do whatever I must to protect the life I’m building.
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