Redefining What It Means to Be Strong
This is an archived post that was originally published at beyond-terminal.com
A couple of weeks ago I had the opportunity to chat with Kellie Hultgren, who will be my coach during the first few steps of bringing this manuscript closer to publication.
Prior to our meeting, Kellie had a chance to review my manuscript. She reassured me that my reformatting, with the book written thematically around what it’s like to process childhood trauma as an adult, is a sound structure. Phew. One suggestion she had is that I consider weaving in more explicit “lessons” that I gleaned from processing my trauma.
I think this is a good suggestion. So, in the next several weeks, I will be combing through my manuscript and looking for those spots where I can incorporate some of the “aha! moments” I had along the way.
It is with this new lens that I critiqued the excerpt that I’m including this week. One thing that I think I eventually will call out more explicitly is my (incorrect) assumption that being “strong” meant not showing my emotions.
How many of us think about strength in this same way?
__________
This passage picks up from the entry three weeks ago and is from the chapter “I Begin Therapy.” (As a reminder, I had just chosen to leave my teaching position.)
I didn’t like the idea of seeing a talk therapist. Not one bit. But I didn’t have any other ideas — and I knew I needed help. So I took that next step and picked up the phone the following day, even though my body was shaking. It was mind over matter.
A week later, I sat in my car in the parking lot where Scarlet’s clinic was located. The only sound was the quiet hum of my car’s motor. Even that seemed loud. My nerves were frayed, and I was anxious about this appointment. I couldn’t stand not knowing how things were going to unfold, the questions that would be asked, the insufficient answers I would offer. My desire to feel better motivated me to get out of the car.
I walked into the waiting room and took in my surroundings. There was soft lighting and a white noise sound machine playing. I picked up a recent issue of People and sat down on the couch, my feet planted on the low-nub carpeting. I held the magazine and stared at the cover, trying my best to appear occupied.
After a few minutes, Scarlet walked into the lobby and greeted me. She was in her 60s and wore her hair in a stylish bob. As I followed her down the hallway, I realized that she was significantly shorter than I was despite her two-inch ankle boots. That said, she walked with an assured stride.
“Have a seat,” Scarlet said once we entered her office.
I sat down on the spacious couch, repositioning the red pillow behind my back. I was feeling anything but relaxed, knowing that I was here to talk. Scarlet settled into an upholstered chair and wrapped her hands around a steaming cup of tea.
“What brings you here?” she asked in her soothing voice.
“I had to quit my job,” I squeaked out.
I began to tell her about my chaotic classroom and Roger’s episodes. Halfway through my retelling, my breath got caught in my throat. I instinctively grasped at my chest in an effort to regain my breathing.
“How stressful for you, Megan.”
I nodded, now placing my shaking hands underneath my thighs. To my dismay, my body felt like it was short-circuiting right before Scarlet’s eyes. And we were only five minutes into the hour-long session.
“But I feel like I…I should’ve…I should’ve been able to do more.” I tilted my head up toward the pock-marked ceiling to prevent the tears from running down my face.
“You’re trying really hard to keep your emotions in.”
My eyes darted down, and I stared at the antique rug. It had no discernible pattern as far as I could tell. I hated all the uncertainty surrounding me. I hated not knowing if Scarlet was someone I could trust. I hated not knowing if Scarlet would really be able to help me. And I hated not knowing what was going to come next – what embarrassing emotion might reveal itself, what question Scarlet might ask, and how we would fill the next 55 minutes.
I was the strong person, yet here I was, with tears falling down my cheeks. I placed my fingers underneath my eyes to stop the tears from coming and waited for Scarlet to say something.
__________
Could it be that I had a warped perception of what it really meant to be strong? I think so.
But it took a long time for me to let go of my old definition. Why is this? According to Pema Chodron in The Places that Scare You, “We cling to a fixed idea of who we are and it cripples us (19).”
Many of us find it hard to have our preconceptions challenged. But, if we learn to approach new ideas with curiosity, our thinking can change.
I read a lot of Brene Brown’s books during this time, and her words started to resonate with me. Brown proposes that strength is actually equated with being vulnerable.
Could I have had everything backward?