I am having a tiny little crisis of the faith here. If you have no time or interest to read this, by all means, carry on. I totally understand. This is my blog, and I’ll cry if I want to. But maybe you’ll read to the end, and you’ll be moved by what you read.
I am a healer. I am a teacher. I’m a truck driver, an ex-patch-worker, and a writer. I’m a recovering smarty-pants and a brain injury survivor.
I have always felt special.
I have always felt, I dunno, imbued with this special confidence that I had big, big things to teach the world.
I’m really, really good at what I do, which use BodyTalk to help people become one with the spark of divinity within themselves.
Today, my divinity is a little tarnished. I’m a little bit broken, a little bit scuffed.
I’m tired. I know what I need to do to take care of myself, but I’m not, for a variety of reasons. I’m anxious, I’m apprehensive and I’m wondering if the struggle is even worth it. So many people are our there doing great, transformational work. They don’t need me. I’m not even that special anyway.
This is a sad, droopy little post, and even while I was writing it, I didn’t want to post it. People don’t want your sad-sack stories — they want your energy, your spark, your insight and you value. If you can’t bring that to they table, then why not just call it a day?
I was going to. And then I thought, you know, everybody has days like this. I’m not alone in this. I’ve been on Twitter for 4 days, and I have seen more genuinely charitable, human, divine discourse in those four days than I ever imagined possible. I’ve followed some truly amazing people. And I know they ALL have days like this one.
But maybe they feel a little alone. Maybe they don’t realize that there are other people who, in spite of knowing that they have incredible super-powers still feel a bit small and uncertain at times. And maybe it would be just the thing they needed to hear.
So I’m saying it.
Everyone is shouting “Authenticity!” at the tops of our voices. If we’re going to be authentic about our joys and our excitement and our triumphs and our felix clock collections, we owe it to ourselves to be j ust as honest about our moments of vulnerability. We owe it to ourselves. Not only to reach out and gain strength from our communities, but we need to model asking for help and support.
We need to model the strength that comes from that vulnerability, because the interdependence of its members is what builds community, and trust, and openness, and awareness. It creates seeing.
Sit quietly for a moment, and consider how many people you interact with on a regular basis pretty much consider you bulletproof? How many people do you actual expose your soft underbelly to? How many people have never seen evidence that you do indeed, bleed, sweat, cry?
It might be that you like it that way. There’s a certain gratification in having people think you have it all together. Who knows? Maybe if enough people think it, you’ll start to believe it too.
Consider this, however. Even if you disregard the times that you might have benefited from the support of others instead of licking your wounds quietly in the dark, consider the people who look up to you.
They want to be you. They want your style, your spark, your verve. They want to be one of the people that has it all together too.
If you don’t show them that you can have doubts, that you can flinch, that you make mistakes and you try and you fail and you stumbled and fell and you broke your heart when you realized you’d never be as perfect as the person you looked up to — You’re giving that experience to them, as well.
Be strong. Be weak.
If not for yourself, for others.
(fwiw I feel a lot better now)