It’s been a rough few weeks at work. I took the time today to read the signs that are posted throughout the school. They helped bring a smile to my face and gave me a renewed sense of energy and purpose (and a few giggles).
I hope they can do the same for you:)
I am about to take a risk.
A calculated one.
A paced one.
But a risk nonetheless.
And I’m scared.
I’m scared I might fail.
I’m scared I’m making a wrong choice.
I’m scared that I’ll have trouble fitting everything in and I’ll lose focus on what’s important.
I’m scared I’ll make people upset.
Or disappointed.
But most of all, I’m scared that it might work.
That it could be the piece I’ve been looking for.
That it could provide me with the freedom I’ve been craving.
Where I am is comfortable. Known. Stable.
But I want more.
I’ve tried before and didn’t quite fail but it wasn’t the answer.
This may be.
It feels right.
But it also feels risky, which makes me want to pull back.
But then I’ll never know what may have been.
Tonight, I am committing to trying.
To risking.
I am making the promise of self support rather than self sabotage.
I started by making a list of all the risks I have taken that have paid off.
One is fresh on my mind.
I took the biggest risk of my life choosing to stay in Atlanta.
Choosing to move near Brock.
Choosing to let myself be vulnerable.
And to let myself love again.
That risked more than anything else ever could.
And I’m happier than ever.
I wonder what this new risk might bring?
At the least, I’ll know I’ve tried.
But hopefully, just hopefully, I’ll be able to add it to my list of successes in another year or two.
I’m going to get myself out of my way, take down the roadblocks of “what if” and enjoy the ride.
Today I had the honor of meeting one of the bloggers whose work I admire.
I was able to put a face with a name.
A voice with the words.
A person with the story.
It’s strange meeting a blogging buddy for the first time. In some ways, you know their most intimate tales. Yet, in other ways, they are complete strangers as you may not know basic facts. It’s like a blind date after reading someone’s diary, flipping through his/her photo albums and having lunch with his/her mom.
I’ve known this woman through her writing for the last year and a half. But her blog doesn’t reveal how her face lights up when she hears a child’s laughter. Her writing doesn’t tell you about the determination and resolve that enters her voice when she speaks of her struggles. Her writing speaks of healing, but her spirit shows it.
We spoke of many things, not the least of which was how blogging has become a part of our lives. The online community part of our circle. It is amazing how writing and sharing allows so many voices to be heard and lets so many more know that they are not alone. We write of universal experiences and truths told through our own experiences. And the sum is certainly greater than the parts.
It’s always a little strange (and scary) tearing down that curtain between my public life and my private. But today, I’m glad I did. I not only have more respect for her and her work than I did before, I hope I also have a new friend (Tiger seconds that!).
My ex never really wore his ring. His hand was injured in a car accident a year before we wed and he claimed that the intermittent swelling was an issue. He also provided the legitimate excuse of working with machinery, where the addition of a metal band increases the risk of traumatic hand injuries.
The fact that he was ringless didn’t bother me. I grew accustomed to his naked finger and I reasoned that it was only symbolic anyway. After all, marriage is founded on actions, not held in small metal bands.
It didn’t bother me until he left. And then I found his two rings (a “dress” one and a scuffed one) in his office. Looking at them cradled in my palm, I wondered if I should have placed more importance on their absence. Maybe the lack of a ring was a broken window in the marriage.
At least I was able to sell them for $200. A drop in the bucket, but a particularly satisfying drop.
During our engagement, Brock and talked about his ring options a few times. He also has legitimate reasons to avoid a metal band, not the least of which is his almost-daily martial arts practice. However, unlike my ex, he didn’t just leave it at that. He looked at options, problem solved his way around the challenge. He thought about a tattoo (it wouldn’t be his first) but hesitated because of his professional career. He thought about multiple metal bands, a replacement ready to step up when one was lost before time in the dojo. He eventually decided on two rings: a tungsten “dress” ring and a silicone SafeRingz as his everyday band.
A week and a half later, I still get a thrill out of seeing that ring on his hand. That outward sign of a private committment.
It also symbolizes his willingness to work through a problem rather than just give up. A quality that was key to me the second time around.
It’s so easy to dismiss those little things as not important. “Don’t sweat the small stuff,” we’re always told.
But sometimes those little things carry a big message.
Tiger has a funny habit on walks. Whenever we encounter another dog (especially if it is a male, dominant-type animal), he begins to pee on everything around. He reaches his leg high, sometimes almost losing his balance, just to aim the stream as high on the tree or post as possible. It’s as though he wants to send the message that he is the big dog and none can top him.
It’s a humorous habit yet one with deeply ingrained motivations.
We humans don’t tend towards literal pissing contents (well, except for that one epic battle that occurred in the boy’s bathroom in my kindergarten class!) but we are no strangers to the impulse to be the top dog.
Sometimes this competitive drive propels us to reach new heights in business or fitness. Sometimes it can be a powerful motivator to do better. To be better.
Yet we also engage in pissing contests that hold no promise of anything better.
We compete to compete even when doing so holds us back.
We want to be the best even when being the best means that we aim to convince others that our pain is greater. That our suffering cannot be beat. That our torment tops all others.
Pain is such a strange thing – universal and yet personal. Subjective. Well known and yet unknowable.
We have a strange drive to want our pain to be understood.
So we share.
And then others share.
Often times, we empathize, recognizing another in pain and reaching out in solidarity.
But sometimes, especially when the pain is still acute, we respond with defensiveness. Frustration at not being understood. Believing that their pain is but a trickle compared to the torrent surrounding us.
For those who have been betrayed, this need for their betrayer to experience their pain is strong. Powerful. Even all-consuming.
We respond by holding on to our suffering. Claiming it. Owning it.
Adding to it until its edges cannot be seen.
We reach that leg up high, releasing the pain for all to see.
It is ours. And ours alone.
I have become so aware of this pissing contest of pain in the comment section of The Huffington Post. It seems like readers want to top one another with their tales of woe with no intent of letting go.
Some stay there, content to won the pissing contest. Their pain is the worst. Their territory clearly marked by signs of suffering.
Others become aware that it is a winless contest. That everyone’s pain is their own and that no one will be fully able to feel yours and, more importantly, no one else can remove yours. That you are more than the sum of your sufferings and that despair is not the badge you want to wear.
You learn that the true release of pain comes with acceptance, not competition.
Tiger continues to be driven by his instincts long after the well has run dry, holding his leg high for an invisible stream. We have the ability to outsmart our drives, to keep our legs down and to continue to move forward. It’s not a contest. You don’t win by tallying the most pain.
You win by letting go and moving on. Even if someone’s pissing on the post behind you.
Related:
Lessons From the End of a Marriage 