(Note: Starting in July, I’ll be starting the #ProvocativeQ challenge on Twitter: 30 simple days of challenging yourself to go into the core questions, rustle up some stagnant belief systems, and come out on the other side not doing the same-old, same-old. To join in, get yourself on the YCL E-letter and then pay attention to your inbox!).
A lot of people talk about wanting to change their lives, and no one wants to be someone who is all talk, no action. So consider this provocative question: Do you avoid anything that makes you uncomfortable?
Here’s a great way to tell whether or not you avoid that which makes you uncomfortable:
Think of a life change that you know you’ve really, really wanted to make. Go deep with this. Consider not just “I want to start going to yoga regularly” but get more vulnerable:
“I want to be closer to my husband/partner.”
“I want to start speaking my truth.”
“I want to stop feeling so bad about my body and love it no matter what it looks like.”
And now: What actions have you taken, consistently and daily, for the past seven days, to make this happen?
If you’re like most people, you’re coming up with…nada. Most of us (and yep, I have to pay attention to this, too) want changes, but change feels uncomfortable, so we don’t do the things we need to do in order to make the change happen.
Now–this used to be one of my stumbling blocks–I’d immediately fall upon anyone who pointed this out to me with, “But I don’t know what to do! If I knew what to do, of course I’d change!”
Then someone–my coach-counselor-guru-man, Matthew–started calling bullshit on that one. I did know of things that I could do. I just wasn’t doing them. He said this because he loved me and he cared (and, by the way, he always said it kindly).
If you want to be closer to your husband, you can clarify why you’re not close, you can clarify exactly what the relationship could be, you could resolve to tell him one nice thing every single day, you could initiate a date night, you could go to counseling, you could surprise him with an impromptu card.
You could do all of this even if it feels weird and uncomfortable because you’ve been stuck in a dynamic with him for a long time and aren’t sure how to get out. You could do this even if he rejects every single action you take, because you aren’t doing this to get a result from him–you’re doing it because the change is important to you.
If you want to start speaking your truth, you could identify the most important relationships for doing that, you could speak your truth once daily and build from there, you could clarify where you tend to hide your truth.
If you want to start loving your body no matter what it looks like, you could look in the mirror daily and say loving things; you could read a book that gets to the heart of why we don’t love our bodies (Geneen Roth’s Women, Food & God is a classic); you could practice self-massage; you could get involved with the Curvy Yoga community.
The Discomfort? Still There
You wouldn’t “get out of” the discomfort if you tried any of this. It would feel new, and unfamiliar, and the inner critic voice would come up. (So do you know how to work with that, when it happens?).
With time, you would get more comfortable, and you would be able to tell yourself, “I do what it takes to make the changes that I desire, even when they are uncomfortable.”
That, in and of itself, would be what it looks like to practice courage.
That, in and of itself, would make a difference in how you feel when you look yourself in the mirror–because you’d know that you’re not bullshitting yourself. You have desires for your life, and you put something behind creating them for yourself.
Go ahead and aim for the discomfort.
Point your arrow right at the heart center of it.
A willingness to be uncomfortable in service to your truest desires isn’t just courage in action, it’s the path to them.
Head to yourcourageouslife.com/begin, join the YCL e-letter, and you’ll be getting more information about how to participate starting July 1st! (And in the meantime, you get access to the YCL library of free goodies).
One of my greatest challenges has been the voice of “fortune-telling perfectionism.”
There’s your usual voice of perfectionism: Could have done it better.
Then there’s what I call “fortune-telling perfectionism”: If you’d only paid more attention to begin with and strategized about all potential possibilities and prepared for them, then you really could have done it better–in fact, you probably could have avoided XYZ big problem.
So in other words? The fact that you experienced XYZ problem? Totally your fault.
In the minutes after I learned that my daughter was both big in utero, and in a breech position, fortune-telling perfectionism was wildly at work.
The BIG baby
“Your baby is breech,” the nurse said.
My mind took a moment more to compute this. On the one hand, I knew what “breech” meant and my brain could compute that the word “breech” was not a great word, but definitely a better word than horrible words like “stillborn.” So, okay, baby is alive–her head is up and her butt is down instead of head down, so she’s breech, but she’s alive.
The nurse confirmed this. “Oh, yeah, everything’s okay,” she said. “I don’t see anything on the ultrasound that is of concern.”
Then she added, “But you’ve got a BIG baby.”
And with that, things were pretty much set. I was officially Kate, with the breech BIG baby. The BIG baby who was unlikely to turn.
On the drive home, I called my husband. I cried. I immediately got on the internet and started researching: there was acupuncture, moxibustion, chiropractic stuff to align your pelvis, full-tilt inversions where you were practically upside down.
There were things you could DO.
That momentarily made me feel better. There were things I could DO! All I’d need to do is DO all of The Things!
Then that all started to fall apart, because…well, shit. I had thought I already HAD been doing all of The Things.
My entire pregnancy, I had prided myself, rather self-righteously, on not using pregnancy as an excuse to over-eat nor to kick back, “take it easy,” and never exercise.
In fact, my eating habits had actually never changed–I never felt hungry enough to “eat for two.” In the first trimester, I had craved bacon on several occasions and indulged, but my weight gain had been completely normal, gradual, and consistent with a boring, routine pregnancy.
Furthermore? I was taking 3-mile walks several times a week with my husband, with the first 1/3 of this 3-mile walk looping up the steepest hill in our neighborhood. Prior to getting pregnant, I used to do run intervals on this hill, and now I power walked it, determined to have a fit pregnancy, especially after I read (because oh, how I read and thumb-nailed and bookmarked and underlined and read some more) that women who exercised during pregnancy tended towards fewer complications, shorter deliveries, and–hey, no arguments, here–babies with a higher I.Q.
And really, I exercised because I’m one of those weirdos who likes to exercise, and if I couldn’t continue to train for a half-Ironman (which I’d been doing before getting pregnant) then a sweaty, cardio-thumping uphill walk that had been ok’d by my practitioner was just the ticket.
Fortune-Telling Perfectionism At Work
I thought I had done enough fortune-telling to plan for all possibilities–to make it perfect.
I had planned for a natural birth. I had arranged to work with a midwife and had purposefully sought one out who was older and who had been delivering babies since before all of the technology. I had bought the Hypnobirthing book and CD. I had read about all the stages of labor. I had identified the yoga poses most likely to open my hips and pelvis. I had watched Orgasmic Birth and The Business of Being Born and even the extended Business of Being Born AND I had read Ina May Gaskin’s acclaimed Guide to Childbirth AND her book on breast-feeding. I knew what Pitocin was and I was prepared to refuse it.
I was crystal clear that I would never have a c-section unless it was medically necessary after a heroic attempt at natural labor, and I was even prepared to bring with me, to the hospital, a list of things that the doctor would have to point out to prove that it really was medically necessary.
But–now that I was Kate with the breech BIG baby, the voice of “you should have planned for this” kicked in.
There were some times where I’d had chocolate or piece of cake after dinner (gluten- and dairy-free dinners of salads, lean meats, cooked vegetables, home-made bone broth soups and stews, quinoa…).
Now, perfectionism kicked in: I should have planned for “What if the baby was a BIG baby” and never eaten those things; my diet should have been perfect.
There were times where I’d skipped going on my 3-mile walk. I was trying to get my business tucked away so that I could be 100% available to Kid Courage when she arrived.
The voice of fortune-telling perfectionism sighed heavily and pointed out that I should never have skipped those walks. If I hadn’t skipped those walks, maybe I would have gained just slightly less weight and the baby wouldn’t be a breech BIG baby.
The baby being BIG was, of course, all my fault.
You Can’t Win at that Game
Oh, and!–the biggest thing I’d done wrong was that I should have checked out the whole breech thing, sooner.
It had never, in a million years, occurred to me that I might need to have a c-section because of a breech baby. But it should have should have should have, said the voice.
The voice of fortune-telling perfectionism said that somehow, I should have directly and specifically asked: “Did the baby turn?” I should have somehow known to ask that question, and asked it early.
Again, you can’t win the game of fortune-telling perfectionism. After a few days of trying to Do All of The Things, grieving the loss of a “birth experience,” and avoiding reading anything about c-sections in the hopes that this would mean I’d never have to have one, I felt emotionally wrecked.
There are a whole host of different interventions and things that you can try in these cases; I don’t want to debate them, here, or get on a soapbox about hospital policies around breech births, or exchange email debates with someone about how I could have had a natural breech pregnancy and it’s okay and on and on…
That’s not why I’m writing this (and believe me, I debated all possibilities). I’m sharing this because the game of fortune-telling perfectionism hit so, so hard. Its message:
Somehow, you should have known better and planned better.
I wasn’t winning at that game. I saw one alternative: I could give up the game, entirely.
I talked to a few trusted people about c-sections. Uniformly, they all expressed the same things that I was feeling: sadness and regret that they had not had the hoped for birth experiences that they’d fantasized about. However, they added, once the whole thing was over and done with, the magnitude of baby in arms had pretty much erased how much they cared about the delivery method.
Turns out, holding the love of your life in your arms pretty much trumps a 40-minute procedure where you’re numb from the tits, down.
I also ended up finding out that my mother was 9 pounds at birth; my niece was 8.5; that my sister knew of a friend who had gained exactly as much weight as me and delivered only a 6-pound baby.
So, maybe this wasn’t “my fault.” Maybe I hadn’t “done this to myself” by “not being careful enough” about my weight.
So I went within, and asked myself: Kate, what’s up, here?
What was up was that I was really attached to a fantasy.
I say that I was attached to a fantasy because the truth was, I couldn’t know with any absolute certainty that one method of delivery was necessarily going to be better for me or the baby, than another.
After all, there were plenty of traumatic “natural birth” stories out there. There were plenty of people who had volunteered their unsolicited advice throughout my pregnancy: GIRLFRIEND, GET THE EPIDURAL. These women seemed to feel about their natural birth experiences the way I feel about vegan cheese: It’s bullshit; don’t believe them when they say it’s okay.
(P.S. I have mad love for vegans–just not for vegan cheese).
Birth is a tricky, controversial thing. I knew that I didn’t want to be part of that paradigm of unnecessary c-sections.
At the same time, there was absolutely no way for me to “fortune-tell” through this one.
Here’s what I did know: I needed to make a decision, and I wanted that decision to be rooted in trusting myself and trusting my daughter. If she wasn’t flipping, it was for a reason. I couldn’t know the reason, but I felt certain that in her own way, she did.
And so, I scheduled the c-section.
Much to my surprise, once I had it scheduled, I felt the strangest sense of relief.
When I surrendered to the idea that I’d done the best I could with what I had, I’d tried DOing all of The Things and they hadn’t worked, releasing the fantasy that there was “some perfect way out there” in which these things were to be done, and most importantly, trusting my daughter…I felt much more peace.
I felt at peace not because I’d arrived at the “perfect” decision. I arrived at peace because that’s what happens any time we move into a space of acceptance of “what-is.” That’s the peace that’s available when we detach from the fantasy and attachment to a specific outcome.
And not surprisingly, peace was exactly what I got with my birth experience.
(Next up: The Birth Story).
I’ve talked before about how inner critic/fearful voices are not, in fact, your enemy–it’s a wound. It’s a part of you that is afraid, shaking, desperately in need of love.
It is a complete and utter contradiction to say, “I want to love myself” and then turn around and call your fears–or any part of yourself with which you are uncomfortable–a “gremlin,” a “monster” or any other name.
In other words? Hating your fear is a total waste of time. It keeps you stuck on what I call the “self-help hamster wheel,” where you’re reading the books and going to workshops and thinking you’re doing your work, but this one little linchpin is keeping everything held in place: hating your fear, which translates to hating a part of yourself.
“Oh, but I don’t hate my fear,” someone will say. “I’m learning to be gentle with myself when I’m afraid.”
Okay, maybe. But take a moment to ask yourself this about your inner critic/fear:
- Do I call my inner critic a “monster” or “gremlin”? Do I use phrases such as “When my gremlins crop up…”?
- Do I tell it to “go away” or “fuck off” or any variation of wanting it to leave when it arises?
- Do I believe that fearful or critical voices have nothing to tell me and nothing worthwhile to offer me?
- Do I love reading blog posts about “becoming fearless” or “kicking fear’s ass”? Do I use such terms, myself?
- Do I berate myself for struggling with the same chronic problems, asking myself why I haven’t “gotten over it” already?
- When my critic comes up, do I tell the critic “I’m not going to listen to you”?
- Do I believe that the critical voices are somehow separate from me, not actually part of the total make-up of who I am? If so, why do I believe that? Consider that if you don’t believe that something is wrong with you because a part of you feels critical or unworthy, then there’s no reason why these voices couldn’t be just as much “you” as the joy, the ecstasy, the compassion, and every other quality we love about you.
When people are sitting down to play poker, experienced poker players will look for the “tell” that another player is bluffing. These sorts of questions are the “tell” that someone still, deep down, perhaps in a place they have trouble owning…still doesn’t like their critic, still hates themselves when fear arises.
This is important: You cannot bluff your way through radical transformation. You cannot read the books and go to the workshops and then practice a few affirmations and acts of kindness and say, “Got it!” without dealing with all the things that you consider to be murky, distasteful, shameful, painful, awful, beyond reproach.
In other words, the longer you bluff to avoid dealing with really accepting and having compassion for your inner critic/fear, the more you waste time.
Sometimes people think they’re practicing a powerful declaration of self-love when they finally decide not to “take it” from the critic.
But calling your critic a “gremlin” isn’t a self-defining moment of courage. It’s self-abuse. It’s calling yourself names.
Calling your critic names isn’t “courage”; it’s abuse.
Hating your fear isn’t courage. It’s self-abuse. It’s self-hate.
If hating your fear worked, we’d all be enlightened. If “kicking fear’s ass” worked, the world would literally be fearless.
You can hate your fear all you want, and call your critic names all you want, and tell yourself that the fearful voices have nothing to do with you, all you want..but that doesn’t mean it’s an effective choice. That doesn’t mean it works.
Again–if that approach did work, we’d all be happy.
Radical love looks like loving all of you, because that’s what fear needs and what love requires. It’s like a small child crying out for its needs to be met, throwing some pretty nasty looking tantrums in its wake without understanding that the tantrums aren’t helpful.
Your job? Help. Help the fear to see that the tantrums don’t get it what it wants; help the fear to understand that there is another way. Ask what the fear needs. Ask how you might help it heal.
Why? Because if you abuse your fear by hating it, calling it names, and so on…you’re being an abuser.
If you truly, honestly have an interest in creating a loving and happy life, you’ll make choices that promote love and happiness. Most of us have been wounded by name-calling and people who “didn’t want to deal” with our needs. Why, then, would any of us think that this is an effective way to deal with the parts of ourselves that we have trouble being with? Why do we think we can get to a loving and happy life…while making choices that are un-loving, like name calling?
I have a whole program about powerfully shifting your relationship to fear and the critic, but you can get started, with this:
1.) Commit to not calling your inner critic/fear names.
2.) Once daily, or more often any time you notice it cropping up, ask your inner critic/fear to respectfully share what it truly needs.
Try this for even one week, and you’ll start to notice that your critic, while critical and hurt and angry and perhaps full of a lot of bluster and drama, is wounded and needs your help.