Dear Brené Brown
Dear Brené Brown,
Today, I realized something. It has to do with shame. And while I’ve not followed you for years, I remember that earlier on you said something about shame needs to come into the light, then it has no more power over you.
So, I’m sharing my realization with you today in order to render my shame powerless.
I signed up for an online weekend retreat with a Qigong Master I studied with years ago. Years ago when I was riding high on yoga and meditation and enlightenment. When I was leading women’s circles, guiding retreats, sharing the love, and writing inspiring articles; kind of like those Californians you make fun of ;) but I’m Canadian.
This wasn’t a learning retreat, not another training notch in my belt. This weekend was a healing retreat. Many of the people had life-threatening or debilitating illnesses. Many were older than I. It was the demographic I would have shown up to support years ago.
As they put us in small groups to answer the question of what is happening for each of us, I received my realization.
I got honest about my life over these past years: how I haven’t slept through the night in 5 years: how pain from my spinal injuries dictates many of my days: how I used to be the one to help people heal, but now I need help: how all my years of glorious yoga, meditation and healing practices have just kept my head above the surface these past few years. It was easy to be honest within the breakout group of strangers who I assumed all had issues worse than mine.
But then something happened. The fellow that spoke after me said that after hearing me talk, he’d never complain about his poor sleep again.
It hit me. I am now the person that I used to help, more honestly, the person that I thought I would never be. And my greatest shame was that I’ve been pretending for years, portraying this “I’ve got this” front because I’ve already been down this road and healed from it. I already wrote the book of healing from injury. How do I let people know that it all blew up?
Hide that shit. You’ll lose your credibility. People don’t want to hear it.
The inner critic has been clear about its stand on this issue.
Tonight, I tried to hide in a Women’s Network Christmas movie. Nothing spoke to me. I wasn’t ready to dive into Downton Abby. Then the Universe spoke through the Netflix menu, as she does, and recommended your special.
I listened and laughed and cried (by the way, you’re one hell of a speaker) and a new realization occurred:
I have chosen to be in the arena. I’ve chosen it for decades: reinventing myself and my work over and over. I’m a little worse for wear these days but I know that I’ll continue to choose the arena. I’ll write the next book. I’ll teach the next class. I’ll take the next course. I’ll try something new. I’ll let go of something old. I’ll stand up for someone, and I’ll probably let someone down. I’ll lick my wounds, learn from them, and then express them in art or poetry with the intention that somebody else may benefit.
I’ll find a way to heal or I’ll find the people, like my Qigong Master or new doctors, who know the way. I’ll keep showing up.
Like many, vulnerability doesn’t come easy to me. It reminds me of another v word… victim. Thanks, in part, to you, I’m discovering the difference.
Vulnerability isn’t about complaining about your situation, it’s about asking for and accepting help. It’s about letting people know what’s happening rather than trying to control the narrative.
Months ago, I took a course with the great Canadian author, Margaret Atwood. She said that what readers do with your work once you let it out into the world is none of your business. Your job is to write the best book you can.
How people view my life is none of my business. My job is to live it the best I can.
The arena doesn’t need to be dark and cold with a concrete floor. I choose mine to be covered in green grass, open to the blue sky above. Great beings have entered this arena. They’ve fallen and risen. I welcome their wisdom. I see your footprints embedded in the grass.
