Our best interests

Posted on November 30, 2012 by

Why is it so hard to act in our own best interests? Or, since I can’t speak for everyone – as much as I’d like to – I’d better rephrase that and ask why it’s so hard for me to act in my best interests?

When I don’t act in my best interests, it’s generally because I’m acting in someone else’s – to please someone else or to do what I think that other person wants me to do. But the irony is that acting in my best interests is, as far as I can see, always the best possible thing, not only for me but also for everyone around me – at least in the long-run.

Generally, when I’m not acting in my best interests, I’m acting out of fear – fear that people won’t approve of me, or that they’ll be angry with me, or that they won’t like me, or that I won’t get what I think I want in the long-run so I’d better take a short-cut or manipulate a situation so I can get my way. Or maybe it’s because I don’t know what’s best for me – I’m unsure of myself, I’m like a feather being blown around in the wind.

But if I go against what I think or I know is right for me, I’ll end up with two possible outcomes (actually probably a lot more than two but it’s been a long day and I can only think of two for now):

- After a while, I’ll start to feel angry and resentful towards myself and this anger and resentment will come out sideways, generally hurting others who are actually the innocent parties in all this – they’ve just unwittingly got caught up in the aftermath of me going against my best interests.

- After a while, I’ll feel shame, because I’m acting in a way that I know isn’t good for me and, in the long-run, isn’t good for others. Shame makes me feel pretty rubbish about myself but it can be quite convenient. It gives me an excuse to dislike myself or to treat myself badly.

Of course there are reasons we find it hard to do what we know is best for us. Maybe we tried to act according to what we thought were our best interests in the past, when we were very young and vulnerable, and maybe we got shouted at. Maybe we took a risk to speak up for what we believed to be right and we were met with anger. Or maybe we decided to express our feelings but we ended up feeling there was something wrong with us, that those feelings weren’t appropriate or valid.

And in that moment, a thought registered in our young brains: it’s not safe to act in my own best interests – it makes people angry and leaves me feeling very scared. And my feelings aren’t true or valid – in other words, I can’t trust them and, by extension, I can’t trust myself. The seed of self-doubt is sown.

These wounds, for some of us, go very deep so it’s no surprise we find it hard to break out of patterns of behaviour that we adopted to stay safe and sometimes to survive. And it’s no surprise that we ended up doubting ourselves or struggling to trust ourselves – or to trust anyone else.

But as the saying goes, if you always do what you’ve always done, you’ll always get what you’ve always got.

So I’m making a conscious choice – from today – to act in my own best interests, in the full knowledge that although it might cause short-term pain or disappointment for others, in the long-term it’s the right thing for everyone involved.

But even as I write those lines, I know it’s not going to be easy. I often struggle to know what’s good for me – to know whether I’m following my heart or my head, to know if I’m acting out of faith or fear. This happens in my work, in my relationships, in decisions around my free time or my social life.

What am I talking about exactly? Well, it’s that little tap on the shoulder, that gentle nudge or that feeling in the gut that tells you to follow course A. But then fear, your head or your ego takes over and you follow course B. The great thing is that with a little bit of awareness, we can change from course B to A, and we can try and act differently the next time around. Because there always will be a next time.

Where do all these musings come from? Well I heard a definition of addiction the other day that really struck a chord. We often think of addiction as drinking ourselves into oblivion or damaging our bodies with cocaine or bingeing on food until we feel sick. But once you clear out all the substances and behaviours that are obviously unhealthy, underneath you’re left with an addiction to acting against your best interests. That’s why addicts may manage to stop bingeing or drinking but they may still be drawn into harmful relationships. Or they may stop taking drugs or smoking cigarettes but they still work themselves into the ground.

I did a quick Google search on ‘acting against one’s best interests’ and I found an interesting post by author Mark Forster. He suggests we ask ourselves what we would do differently if we were to act consistently in our best interests. I particularly like this answer: ‘I would only say yes when I was able to say it whole­heartedly, otherwise I would say no.’ I can’t remember how many times I’ve said ‘yes’ when I didn’t really mean it but there have been quite a few, but then I’m sure I’m not alone in that either.

To act consistently in my best interests is a tall order but I reckon it’s worth a shot. If it were New Year’s, I’d make that my resolution. But maybe I’ll try it out in December and see how I go.

And perhaps the sunshine will help. I’m off to Mexico on Thursday for a month! So this blog may have been a little heavy, but expect some colourful posts in the next few weeks …

 

Posted in Addiction, codependency, Happiness, Self-Acceptance, Women | Tagged , , , , | 4 Comments

Upside down

Posted on November 21, 2012 by

Beautiful colours on the heath

On Monday morning of last week, I was in a North Wales aquarium looking at the fish, sharks, seals and sea lions. On Tuesday, I was at the theatre in London’s West End to see Richard III – on a free ticket and sitting with a friend in a private box. On Saturday, I went out dancing with a bunch of pals in my purple, sequined dress until the early hours of the morning. And on Sunday, I cycled under crisp, blue skies through a mush of beautifully coloured leaves across Hampstead Heath.

Then last night, after getting soaked on my scooter on the way home, I took a long bath. I mean a really long bath. I kept thinking that it really was time to get out but I kept sinking back into the warm bubbles with a smile on my face. It was one of those rare, ‘I’m exactly where I need to be and have everything I need to be happy’ moments.

It got me thinking that, all in all, it’s not a bad life.

It’s all about perspective and the way you look at things.

I learned a bit about perspective on a 10-week painting course for beginners that I’ve just finished. We worked in oil and acrylics, explored the colour wheel, tones and shades and we painted still life.

I knew that painting would be good for me. It’s a different kind of creativity that – I imagined – would be much less cerebral than writing. And I thought it’d help calm my over-active mind and give me something to focus on other than my thoughts.

It definitely did that and it also taught me some valuable lessons in imperfection, letting go of control, going with the flow and trusting the process.

I remember the first few lessons. They drove me mad. I didn’t have a clue what I was doing. I wanted someone to give me more definite instructions, to tell me what I was doing with my paints was ‘right’ or ‘wrong’, to stand behind me and say, ‘now mix in this colour’ or ‘now put some shadow over there’.

But it wasn’t that kind of course. We were given direction, yes, but then we were let loose with the paints and canvas. I remember when someone asked me after two classes how I was finding it. ‘Challenging,’ I replied. ‘I haven’t got a clue what I’m doing.’ It seems I was taking the same cerebral approach to painting as I do to so many other things.

It became clear to me pretty quickly that I really didn’t like not being in control. I didn’t like not knowing whether what I was painting was good or right. I wanted to know I was mastering what I was being taught, that I was learning correctly. I wanted to know that my black was black, rather than grey.

Pretty soon, though, I chilled out. I was half-way through a class when I realised painting wasn’t about right or wrong or getting the perfect shade or tone. It was about experimenting, playing, interpreting and letting things evolve. Once I’d realised that, the course became a lot more fun. It was great to see how everyone, when asked to mix grey, ended up with different shades. Or when painting something red or blue, ended up with very different tones. And I loved creating a big mess of colours on my palette.

‘The Boot and the Vase’, oil on paper, 2012

Then, in my final class, I had my biggest breakthrough. I’d been painting a pair of maroon-coloured Dr. Marten boots (in oils). I’d left the previous lesson feeling a little dejected and somewhat amused as I’d ended up with one boot and one vase. Yes, a vase. We’d painted vase-shaped items a few weeks earlier and we’d been advised to use a similar technique. But maybe I’d taken the instructions too literally. I had a boot and a vase.

While my new, more laid-back approach to my painting course helped me to see the funny side, I was still a little disappointed half-an-hour before the end of the final class because I still had a boot and a vase.

‘A pair of Doc Martens’, oil on paper, 2012

But then, with a few tips from the teacher, some suggestions from a fellow student and the application of a bit of light and shade, suddenly my vase turned into something that looked remarkably like a boot.

I was absolutely amazed. And delighted. I’d been about to throw in the towel and name my painting ‘The Boot and the Vase’ but I actually had a pair of DMs.

So my conclusion, after my 10-week painting course, is that breakthroughs often happen when we’re on the verge of giving up and that it’s always worth trusting the process and giving things time to evolve.

And it’s also always worth looking at things from a different perspective.

The teacher suggested we start our painting of boots (or shoes in the case of some of the students) by doing a very small, rough painting – marking out the general shapes that we saw – and then turning that small painting upside down. We would then copy from that upside down painting onto the larger piece of paper and, once we’d done that, we’d turn the big painting the right way up.

Boots and shoes by my talented fellow students

By doing this, we would look at the boots not as boots but as shapes, surrounded by other shapes and made up of light and dark. I confess we were all pretty sceptical as we turned our boards around but it actually worked.

It got me thinking about yoga again. About the poses in which you hang upside down and look through your legs or stand on your head. It’s all about seeing the world through a different perspective. According to common yoga wisdom, seeing the world upside down throws new light on old habits, behaviours and ways of being, reduces anxiety and increases self-confidence.

I haven’t managed a headstand yet and I’m still a yoga beginner, but I definitely like the idea of seeing things from a different perspective.

And I felt like I’d found some of that perspective last week. I had been feeling very overwhelmed about my workload and everything I need to do in the next few weeks but I suddenly decided to stop seeing everything as a terrible chore and to start seeing each day and each ‘task’ as a gift.

This new perspective is definitely helping.

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Belonging

Posted on November 1, 2012 by

I had a strange post-holiday sensation yesterday. I felt all at sea, despite being back in the metropolis and a long way from the sunny shores and gentle waves of southern Turkey.

I arrived back from my delightful yoga break late on Monday and spent Tuesday enjoying the luxury of not having to rush back to work. I did several loads of washing, checked my emails and walked in the park with my Mum who’d been flat sitting in my absence. I felt at peace.

Wednesday, however, was a different story. I had designated Wednesday as ‘back to work day’, only I didn’t seem to have a job to go to.

There’s something about being freelance, being self-employed, having to constantly self-start and self-motivate that seems to make the post-holiday blues much more acute. I remember when I was in full-time work and I would head into the office straight after an overnight flight or short on sleep after a late-night arrival. That first day back would be catch-up day – catching up on the news, on emails, on admin and with colleagues. Bar any major news event, I would ease myself gently back into the world of work, into that world to which I belonged, into the team that I was part of and into the role I performed.

It was that feeling of belonging to something that I missed so deeply on Wednesday morning. When you’re a self-starter and you’ve had some time off, it’s hard to know how to start again. At least it was for me.

I had the feeling that I was drifting, that I wasn’t part of anything. I had no partner or children clamouring for my attention, no family of my own to slot myself back into. And I had no job to return to, no team to join in with again.

I felt anchorless. Rudderless. Without direction. Without purpose.

That familiar question, ‘What am I doing with my life?’ took up residence in my brain. I started thinking about career changes, thinking that I wasn’t cut out for a life of not belonging and thinking that everything I’d been excited about before my holiday – story ideas I’d pitched to magazines and the book I’ve talked so much about – was worthless, pie-in-the-sky claptrap. I should just give it all up and find something else to do with my time, find an office to work in, a team to work with, somewhere to belong, I told myself.

Now, I’m not saying these aren’t valid points. Belonging is important – that’s clear to me now, if it wasn’t before. That’s why so many of us join clubs or societies, work in offices even if at times we hate our jobs, or form partnerships, enter into marriages and create families. Belonging gives us a sense of meaning, a sense of purpose. And I had none of the above, no partnership, no children dependant on me, no job to rush out to. I felt like I had nowhere to go, nothing to do – an odd feeling for someone who constantly feels overwhelmed by the number of tasks on her To Do list.

Fortunately, though, those feelings passed. And all it took was a little action, a few tiny steps to reconnect myself to my life here in London and to the people who, like me, suffer at times with that same feeling that they don’t belong. I remembered I wasn’t alone, and that gave me a sense of belonging.

I also remembered that belonging begins on the inside, not on the outside, and that planting myself in an office and doing work I’m not passionate about just to feel like I’m part of something, or tying the knot with the first eligible man who crosses my path or having a baby simply to fill the gap was not going to cure my existential angst. It’s an inside job. I can feel like I belong even if I don’t have any of the things traditionally associated with belonging.

Once I’d realised that, I could get on with some practical action to give me a sense of purpose and direction. I returned to my studio today (where I have colleagues, even if we all do different things) and got on with some work (including writing this blog, which always grounds me). I started sending out some more story ideas to magazines to make up for the knock-backs I’d received when I came back from my trip (dust yourself off, Katherine, and carry on). And I set up two interviews for my book, getting excited again about a project that I’ve already put a lot of work into and that’s definitely worth a shot.

I also dragged myself out of bed this morning (despite poor sleep) and got to a 730 am yoga class, which was incredibly rewarding, once I’d got over the initial shock of cycling there in the cold and dark. As I planted one foot firmly on the floor and felt the strength in my standing leg as I lifted the other behind me, I felt connected, connected to the earth, connected to my core.

The sun setting into the sea

And that’s what the yoga break in Turkey did for me – it connected me to my centre, to the essence of who I am (I have a feeling that last phrase sounds a little grandiose but I’ll leave it in there anyway). It reminded me that I have a spirit of adventure and a love for foreign lands. It reminded me that my spirit sings when I’m swimming in the sea, walking through pine forests or sitting on a rock watching the sun set on the horizon. And it reminded me that I can trust myself to know what is good for me, to know what is right for me, even if the voices in my head try to send me down a different path.

I feel a little taller and stronger after a week of yoga but, most importantly, my mind feels calmer. It’s likely the anxiety will return – it’ll take a while to rewrite a script I’ve been following for decades – but I feel I have more tools, more awareness and more strength to fight back today.

Walking to Kabak beach through pine forests

And I have memories to draw on – of lying on the floor of a wooden yoga shala at the end of a class, listening to the bees buzzing and the birds singing as the sun warmed my legs. Of wandering down a path, through vegetable gardens and past chickens, to my wooden hut. Of walking down a slope through pine forests to a rocky cove to swim with fish and watch sailboats glide along in the distance. Of walking back up the hill to meet my fellow yogis for a delicious meal harvested from the local plantations and eaten on an outdoor platform with an incredible sea view. And of stopping to look at the moon and the stars as I made my way to bed. (I was at Suleyman’s Gardens near Dalaman in southern Turkey if my description sounds appealing.)

The view from the yoga shala

I make good decisions.

I can trust myself.

I belong.

All will be well.

 

 

 

 

 

Posted in Leisure, Spirituality, Travel, Women, Work, yoga | Tagged , , | Leave a comment

The final frontier

Posted on October 21, 2012 by

Space: the final frontier. These are the voyages of the starship Enterprise … Any Star Trek fans out there? I was a big fan, but that was many moons ago.

Actually, this blog isn’t about space, although I did love Felix Baumgartner’s freefall last week.

The final frontier I’m talking about is anxiety. I got a diagnosis last week. I was told, by a clinical psychologist, that I’m suffering from generalised anxiety disorder (GAD).

On the one hand, it was a relief. It was a relief to put a name to the years of worry and stress, the sleepless nights, the bags under the eyes and the panic attacks. It seems that anxiety was always there, lurking underneath. But I used food and all manner of other unhealthy behaviours over the years to mask it and keep it at bay. Now, though, I’ve got nothing left to numb it with so it’s left to run riot in my body and my head.

Anxiety is going to be the last thing to go – it’s not surprising it’s holding on for dear life.

After doing my research, I’ve been left wondering how far this condition goes back.

When I cried all the way home from an ‘A’ level at school after thinking I’d misread the question, getting my poor Mum in a right tizz, I wonder whether that was the natural reaction of a highly-sensitive, perfectionist schoolgirl or whether that was GAD? My worst fears did not come to pass. I didn’t fail or come bottom of the class. I got an ‘A’, as I did in every other test.

When I stressed about my hair or my weight in my teens, was that the normal response of an adolescent who just wanted to be liked, or was that GAD?

I could go on … from the panic attack I suffered driving along an incredibly busy highway in Brazil, to the stress I used to put myself under in my journalism job (and still do, despite being my own boss), to the debilitating indecision over buying shoes, choosing a coat or dating a guy. The constant questioning. The brown or the black? The red or the purple? The ‘Is he or isn’t he’? The catastrophising and always expecting the worst – in my work, when booking holidays, when making a choice.

I guess it’s hard to say. These things aren’t cut and dried and nor is that kind of diagnosis. We are all anxious, to different degrees, and my anxiety hasn’t particularly stopped me from doing stuff, it’s just caused me a lot of pain and grief and taken away the joy. I guess that’s bad enough.

But the diagnosis helps because it gives me options. A course of cognitive behavioural therapy on the NHS – once I get to the top of the waiting list. The option of taking the anti-depressants if I decide that will help – in the short-term – knowing more accurately what I’m dealing with.

And it gives me the awareness, the absolute certainty, that things like meditation, yoga, positive affirmations, relaxation, time out, friends and fun are really going to help. In fact, they’re essential to my wellbeing.

So I’m going to wrap this up – sooner than I normally would – because tomorrow I’m off to Turkey on my yoga break. And I’m expecting the best. Even though the weather has cooled off over there and I have a long day of travel ahead, I am expecting the best. And when I start to slip into worst-case-scenario thinking, I can tell myself that that’s just my standard response. I can tell those thoughts to get lost.

I’ve done all my work – despite thinking I wouldn’t get everything done – and I’ve nearly packed. I’ve got time for a bath before or after Downton Abbey and even found time for this quick blog. On Friday, of course, I thought I’d never get everything done.

I even managed to appear on BBC London 94.9 last night on Kath Melandri’s (@kath_melandri) show, and without feeling much anxiety at all. I was in the Ladies Lounge, chatting about the week’s news, current affairs and a few topics close to my heart with the wonderful Kath and journalist and fellow northerner Louise Hulland (@MsHepburnley). It was great fun. I even got credited on their site as an ‘author’ although that’s not quite the case – not yet.

Before I sign off, and in case you’re looking for more to read, I wanted to link to a beautiful blog by friend and founder of Gateway Women, Jody Day. It’s called Elegy in an English country churchyard and I found it very moving. Jody has some workshops coming up soon (Brighton this coming weekend, London Nov 4th) for women who are still hoping to have children and need some support around that, or for those who’ve moved beyond their fertile years and want to get their mojo back. Check out Gateway Women for details.

Right. Off to finish packing, run my bath and settle down in front of the TV.

All will be well.

 

Posted in Addiction, Eating disorders, Faith, Happiness, Perfectionism, Women | Tagged , , , | 2 Comments

The life I want to lead

Posted on October 10, 2012 by

Have you ever had the feeling that the life you’re leading is so far removed from what you want it to be or what you expected it to be at this age or stage of your existence?

I had that feeling the other day and it hit me like a fast-moving truck. To be honest, when I had the feeling, I wasn’t too far from being hit by a fast-moving truck, literally. I was riding a scooter on a busy, dual carriageway somewhere on the northern outskirts of London in the driving rain and blustering wind, as huge vehicles whizzed past me at high speed, covering me in dirty spray and knocking me slightly off balance.

I felt incredibly vulnerable and scared – and that’s saying something for a confident driver who’s been riding a scooter around London for six years. But I could cope with the vulnerability and fear. And I could cope with the cold and the horrible driving conditions. I just sat up straight, kept my nerve and kept my eyes on the road.

What was harder to deal with was the stream of questions that rushed through my mind as I tried to focus on my driving: ‘What on earth am I doing here? What kind of life is this? Surely it wasn’t meant to be like this? Why am I scootering in the pouring rain? I’m 41. Shouldn’t I be driving a car by now? Or better still, being driven along by a partner with a few kids in the back. How did I end up here? And is this it? Will it always be this way?’

As another noisy truck sped past, leaving me shuddering in its wake, my life was brought into sharp relief. And I didn’t like what I saw, not one bit. I’d totally veered off track.

The ensuing feeling was akin to shock.

My eyes pricked and I wanted to cry but I steeled my gaze and carried on, aware that floods of tears may be one hazard too many. But when I got home, peeled off my sodden wet-weather gear and took a bite out of the soggy sandwich I’d been carrying around all day (I’d missed lunch and I was starving), I sobbed my heart out. I stood in the kitchen, leant on the worktop and wailed. The tears came from such a deep place that my shoulders heaved and I had to double over to let them out. I was shaking, with cold and with emotion.

Eventually, the crying subsided and I poured myself into a steaming hot bubble bath and, from that place of warmth, stillness and safety, began to look at my day and my life.

I’d been doing motorbike training that Friday so I could pass my full motorbike license. This would enable me to get rid of the ‘L’ plates I’d been sporting for six years, carry passengers and, most importantly, avoid having to take basic tests every two years to keep me on the road.

I’d been meaning to get my license for ages and at the time I signed up for the training, it seemed like a good idea. Why do another basic test now and again in 2014? But I hadn’t bargained on the rain, wind, the dual carriageways at 60+ mph or the fast-moving heavy goods vehicles. Nor, it seems, had I thought too far ahead. In two years time, did I really see myself living in the same one-bedroom flat and riding a scooter around the same streets of London? Was that what I wanted for myself, for my future? What about the dreams of a relationship and/or a family? Of higher-paid work so I could afford a car? Of living near the sea so I could have a dog and wouldn’t have to navigate the capital’s heavy traffic?

Somehow, in my mind, the act of taking that motorbike test seemed to be condemning me to lead the same single, rainy London life for years to come. And I so didn’t want that.

Of course, those feelings were acute in that moment and they’ve lessened since. Today, I am pleased – and proud of myself – that I passed two difficult motorbike driving tests and a written theory test (all first time), can get rid of the ‘L’ plates and carry passengers. And my scooter is a real joy on beautiful spring, summer or autumn days, ferrying me into town in 20 mins or over to view the glorious colours of Hampstead Heath or swim in the refreshing waters of the Ladies’ Pond. The speed, the convenience and the freedom suit my personality.

But what I have taken away from that day is a sense that if I want my life to change, I have to change it. If I don’t want to be scootering around London in two years – with or without a passenger – it’s up to me to do something about it.

The impetus to change also seems to be a reaction to the box of anti-depressants sitting, still unopened, in my kitchen drawer. It occurred to me that my depression/sadness/misery (call it what you will) seemed to be circumstantial. At the start of September, after a summer of doing largely as I pleased, visiting friends, family and spending time in Nature and by the sea, I was feeling pretty upbeat, as I wrote in Waiting for my honeymoon on Sept 5:

In early June, I blogged about my sadness. The tears had been flowing really fast for quite a few weeks, even months. Of course, I held it together pretty well on the outside but I was seriously worried about myself. I talked to my GP about anti-depressants and gave them a lot of thought.

Three months on, however, and without taking any pills, I feel – dare I say it – happy. I feel content, hopeful and excited. I feel grateful and loving towards myself and my fellows. Yes, I feel good.

A month later, I was back at the doctor’s surgery, requesting those same pills I’d decided I didn’t need. What had changed? As far as I can see, in September I’d returned to the rigid straightjacket of my London life – the interminable commitments aimed at improving myself: the therapy, the addiction recovery meetings, the constant sharing of my troubles and supporting other people with their stuff and the endless striving to achieve, to make a name for myself (whatever that means). Once again, I’d left no space for fun, joy or the things I love. No wonder my mood had sunk.

It seems that I was about to take a pill to cope with the rubbish life I’d created for myself. So, at least for a trial period, I’ve decided to try to create a better life for myself to see if I can avoid taking a pill.

Step one – a holiday. I’m off to the south of Turkey in less than two weeks for a yoga retreat. I’d been meaning to book something for weeks but was worried about money, tiredness, temperature etc etc etc. In short, I couldn’t for the life of me make a decision.

Step two – I’m thinking of spending a month in Mexico over December and January and renting out my flat to help pay for it. I love my family dearly and have grown to love Christmas in the UK – the traditions, the candlelit church services, the chill – but there’s another part of me that longs to return to Mexico, to hear the mariachi music, feel the splash of the Pacific Ocean against my legs, taste the spicy shrimp and see the vibrant colours of that amazing country once again. And I have a wedding to go to – in Acapulco!

I’m aware that both these steps may sound like escapism,  like I’m doing a ‘geographical’ – trying to run away from my problems without realising that I take myself with me wherever I go. But this time I know I take myself with me and I have a strong sense these trips will get me out of my head, give me some much-needed perspective and help me find a little bit of that sparkle and spirit I appear to have lost. And if not, at least I’ll have tried.

I used to take risks, be spontaneous and laugh a lot more. Granted, in the old days I used crutches to cope with my fear of people and of life – excess food, alcohol, male attention, work, status etc. But it seems, as I’ve put down those crutches and delved into the reasons why I was using them, I’ve shrunk a little. I’ve lost some of my enthusiasm for life.

I go to bed at reasonable times, get plenty of sleep and eat well pretty much all of the time. I keep to all my commitments every week, do my work and try to spend money wisely. I’m a very good girl, nothing like the crazy girl I used to be. But I fear the balance has swung too far the other way and I can hear fun, joy and spontaneity crying out to me.

Going back to Mexico, in one way, would be like returning to the scene of the crime, to the place where I engaged in some of my worst excesses (read A Mexican memoir to get an idea). On the other hand, it’s probably the place I felt most alive, spontaneous and free. And it’s where – for the first time in years after wandering the world – I felt like I belonged, in a massive family of friends, a jumble of nationalities thrown together in that vast metropolis.

Mexico isn’t booked, nothing is decided. We will see. Today, I feel I’d like to make the trip, but if I don’t, I’d hope to find other ways of recovering some of my sparkle. I can moan about my circumstances until the cows come home but nothing’s going to change unless I put in the action.

(PS Beautiful, bright one-bedroom flat for rent in north London, Dec 6 – Jan 6. The right price for the right person!)

Posted in Addiction, Fun, Happiness, Women | Tagged , , , , | 13 Comments

Vulnerability

Posted on October 5, 2012 by

“Every morning, I set an intention to be courageous.”

Those words have been ambling around my brain for the last few days, ever since I heard Brené Brown utter them on Wednesday evening, during a Q and A on vulnerability at the School of Life in London. I was one of the lucky people to get in to the event – tickets sold out within 48 hours.

I consider the rush for the tickets and the fact that Brené’s Ted talks on vulnerability and shame have been watched by millions of people around the world a really positive thing – for all of us. The huge interest in her work means (or at least I interpret it this way) that so many of us, if not all of us, feel vulnerable and experience shame – despite the fact that an equal number of us tries to hide those emotions, often quite successfully.

So I can conclude that when I feel vulnerable or exposed to hurt or rejection or gripped by fear, it’s likely the person on the other end of the phone or sitting opposite me (this could be a friend, a boss, a potential employer, or prospective boyfriend or partner) is feeling the same or at least has felt the same at some point in their lives.

This is really good news, particularly when it comes to my ambitions to be a more widely published journalist and to get my books (I’ve now got two ideas on the go!) into print. When I quiver inside at the prospect of someone telling me my ideas don’t hold water or that my writing isn’t good enough, I can remember that the person I’m speaking to has quivered too. He or she may not be quivering in that moment – they may be completely unflustered during that particular exchange – but it’s likely they’ve quivered in the past. It’s probable they know very well what it is feel all aquiver (insecure, wobbly, shaky, nervous, unsettled, to mention just a few definitions).

I’m finding this realisation reassuring and I’m hoping I can use this understanding in my daily life to be more bold, more resilient and more accepting of my sometimes shaky insides.

That’s what Brené challenges us all to do through her talks and via her latest book: Daring Greatly: How the Courage to Be Vulnerable Transforms the Way We Live, Love, Parent, and Lead.

The title of the book comes from a Theodore Roosevelt quote from 1910:

“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly.”

Putting ourselves in the arena and slugging it out may be terrifying, Brené said, but it’s nowhere near as terrifying or dangerous as looking back and saying, ‘what would have happened if I’d shown up for myself. What would have happened if I’d really tried?’

Brené made so much sense to me on Wednesday evening that it’s hard to pick out the best bits but I’ll try.

She said that setting an intention to be courageous every day is the only thing that saves her when she gets attacked or rejected – at least she can hold on to the fact that she’s been courageous, that she hasn’t got up in the morning and said, ‘I’m going to do my best to be liked today’.

She described vulnerability as uncertainty, risk and emotional exposure and said she’d spent most of her life trying to outrun or outsmart it, staying under the radar, trying not to get hurt – but this kind of behaviour comes at a huge cost, because “when we armour up against vulnerability, we armour up against love and joy.”

This makes perfect sense to me. I think I spent many years trying to do the same, trying to avoid vulnerability, to escape getting hurt, to avoid being laughed at and running from potential rejection, belittlement or that feeling of being overly exposed. And I did a pretty good job at it, climbing high and building a strong fortress around myself, comprised of achievement, status and external accolades. But something was dying inside. There were plenty of artificial highs and adrenalin rushes but the real me was missing, along with love and joy – I was numbed to them, blocked off from them. As Brené said, we try to perfect everything, control everything and please others as a barrier against vulnerability.

I also loved what Brené had to say about our tendency to expect the worst, to imagine catastrophe around every corner. I’ve blogged about this before, and particularly in my recent post ‘Be still my beating heart‘. Some of us imagine tragedy in moments of joy, she said, because we want to beat vulnerability to the punch, we don’t want to be caught off guard by uncertainty or pain.

Her solution to this is to try and practice gratitude in the moment – so when things are going well but I fear the worst, to say ‘thank you’ for where I am or what I have. Or when I’m stood in the park on a sunny day and I think the two men walking towards me are going to mug me (a throwback to being attacked at gunpoint in Mexico), perhaps I can look around and say thank you for the vivid colours of the trees (I still wonder where to draw the line between trusting the universe that all will be well and avoiding having my mobile phone snatched in London?! Expect the best, plan for the worst?).

The fear of being laughed at or belittled is the biggest bar to creativity, Brené said, but there’s never been a truly innovative idea where that didn’t happen. She also said she could wallpaper the room with rejection letters for her book proposal, which gives me great hope!

Being vulnerable and putting ourselves out there won’t be easy and it can be exhausting. But the alternative is a long, slow spiritual death – the sense, which I’ve experienced in the past, that our light has gone out. Austrian psychiatrist Viktor Frankl said: “What is to give light must endure burning.”

So now I turn to my attention to someone who, I believe, has dared greatly, has exposed her vulnerability and has most definitely slogged it out in the arena of life, with sweat, tears and probably some blood. There’s no sitting on the sidelines for my friend and former colleague Sophie Walker (@sophierunning).

Last night, I was at the launch of Sophie’s first book: Grace Under Pressure: Going the distance as an Aspergers Mum. It’s an incredibly powerful and moving account of Sophie’s struggle to nurture, understand, protect and get the appropriate support for her darling daughter Grace for many years before and after a diagnosis of Asperger Syndrome, while at the same time battling her own depression, anxiety and acute sense of failure. It also describes how Sophie found an outlet for her grief and pain through running and raised thousands of pounds for the National Autistic Society, of which she’s now an ambassador, all the while charting the ups and downs of her emotions and her marathon training on her blog. The book is inspiring, has an incredibly broad reach and I highly recommend it.

I take my hat off to Sophie – for her grit, her determination, her courage and her willingness, always, to get into that arena, no matter how big and scary it may seem. My wish is that we can all look to Sophie’s courage and that of her daughter to inspire us to get into the arena too.

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A natural high

Posted on September 25, 2012 by

Imagine a world where everybody lived, worked and related to each other as their authentic selves. A world where there was no pretending, no masks, no false personas. A world where the only part anyone played was their own – the one part they were destined to play.

I have a feeling we’d all be a lot happier. And we’d be really good at what we were doing – because we were always meant to be doing it.

I got a glimpse of that world yesterday, and it was a pretty cool place. I took part in a Women in Business conference hosted by the National Black Women’s Network, and the indomitable Sonia Brown MBE (@soniatalks). I was at a similar event in May last year and came away just as inspired and moved to blog about it: If you can dream it.

The difference is that while last time I was sat in the audience, wondering where on earth my career was going and how I was going to find the time and money to maintain my creative writing and pursue my passions, this time I was at the front of the room, stood at the podium, delivering a presentation about those passions.

Sonia and I – being authentic

I gave a workshop on blogging and talked about how blogging had helped me discover my authentic voice after years of silencing it, how it had given me back my love of writing and how it had created a platform from which to approach different newspapers and magazines and write about issues close to my heart.

I talked about my initial motivation for blogging – to publicise my efforts to abstain from negative thoughts about my body, appearance and achievements during Lent last year – and how exploring my feelings, thoughts and ups and downs throughout the past year and a half as I turned 40 and then 41 had been a cathartic experience for me and, from the responses of my blog readers, inspiring for others. And I explained just how far a blog can take you in your career or your business.

And despite all my talk of fear, panic, dread and anxiety in my last post, I didn’t experience any fear, panic, dread or anxiety as I spoke, apart from a few seconds of pre-talk nerves, which, I think, are healthy because they mean I’m moving out of my comfort zone.

And what was the response from the audience to my authentic self? What was the reaction to me being me? It was overwhelmingly positive, affirming and validating. I got so much love, support and positive feedback that I was buzzing until the early hours of the morning.

This is really exciting. It turns out that the love, security, validation and affirmation I’d been chasing my whole life – through a high-profile career, by achieving a certain professional status, by following a well-worn path, by adapting myself to suit the needs of others or by hiding my true self in relationships – is available to me, and by the bucket load, when I’m me.

Nobody else. Not an edited version of myself. Just me. 

Authenticity is cool. And I want to write and speak about authenticity and inspire others to be their true selves. I know there will be lots of opportunity to do this in the future – and even to get paid for it.

To give a flavour of my last 24 hours of authenticity, I received many supportive tweets and emails from those who heard my blogging workshop yesterday, I was offered the opportunity to do some paid work in a field that really interests me, I’ve had an encouraging conversation with a literary agent about my book, I’ve been invited to guest blog on another well-read site and I’ve been invited to speak on the radio tomorrow morning about women and wellbeing.

Authenticity rocks. And it brings results.

That was in evidence at the NBWN event yesterday: so many women following their heart and pursuing their dreams, ploughing on regardless of obstacles, challenges or limited resources. So many women inspiring others to do the same.

I loved Sonia’s encouragement to all of us to take rejection in our stride, to get up, brush ourselves off and to try again, as many times as necessary. Her enthusiasm and energy know no bounds. There’s no slouching or napping when Sonia’s in the room.

I loved Jenni Russell‘s (@pelvicsecrets) boldness, her vision and her passion for our pelvic floor.

And I loved Carol Pyke‘s (@carolepyke) presentation on the power of our stories and the importance of staying true to ourselves : “In this game of life, only play YOU to the best. Play someone else and you’ll be mediocre at best.” “Be yourself – all others are taken!”

Carol asked us all to come up with three words to describe ourselves. I decided on authentic, passionate and inspiring.

It seems, from the reaction of others, that is how I was yesterday. And it’s how I hope to be every day.

Postscript

In case you were wondering, that little white box I blogged about in my last post, Be still my beating heart, is no longer in my handbag or so much on my mind. It’s in the kitchen drawer. For today, I’m relying on my inner resources and God to give me my strength, ease my fears and bring me through.

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