On silencing my inner control freak, and letting go

I did battle with my inner control freak this week, and I’m not sure who won.

One minute I was embracing the chaos of my currently crazy-busy life and setting very clear priorities for my time; the next I was seriously considering setting my alarm for 4.30am so I could fit in a workout before starting work at 7.30. I had to give myself a stern talking to at that point. In the unlikely event that any of you needed a reminder on this: 4.30am is a time for going to sleep after a massively unhealthy night. It is not a time for waking up and commencing massively healthy activity.  

The part of me that wanted to make every minute of my life useful – hello, control freak! – did not want to accept the fact that, at a time when work is ridiculously (but temporarily) busy, I do not have the time for my lengthy fitness sessions. A one-hour yoga class after work: yes, but only once a week. Ninety-minute sweat sessions followed by the palaver of getting my body into a workplace-appropriate state then travelling into the city: no, not right now.

Of course, this wasn’t really about exercise at all. Although fitness is important to me, I’m fairly blasé about it, and it’s not unusual for me to flag a workout due to time constraints. So for me to consider depriving myself of the sleep I so badly need to get through this busy period, in order to squeeze in gym time, was not about maintaining my physical fitness but about maintaining a routine. My inner control freak does not like the unexpected. It likes order. It likes familiarity. It believes it can keep me safe by restricting me to a predictable path. It is wrong.

Last weekend I tried floatation therapy which demonstrated my struggle to let go in a fairly obvious way. This involves stepping into a dark, silent chamber filled with highly salted water for an hour and just floating (side note: you guys really need to get in on this action). In other words, letting go. Not letting your body steer you. Not letting your brain be distracted by what’s around you (you are virtually deprived of sensory stimulation). Not letting your brain obsess about the time or grocery lists or deadlines or upcoming family birthdays or whether your boss is shitty with you or whether she was just overtired when she was a bit short with you yesterday. Should be easy, right?

Floating on the surface, going in deep.

Yeah, it should be.

I struggled with this so much. First, my body didn’t want to accept that it wasn’t required to move. That it was fully supported and perfectly safe. It’s a very strange sensation to be partially submerged and not have to do anything to keep yourself in that state. I kept trying to push my bum downwards to the bottom of the chamber, just to reassure myself that I couldn’t sink (yeah I know, that doesn’t even make sense). I also kept lifting my arms up behind me because I was worried I’d hit my head on the edge.

Then my stupid brain started up. It didn’t want to be present in this moment, it wanted to race ahead and plan everything everything everything. The week ahead. New projects to pitch for. What to say to friends who are going through challenging times. My inner control freak was not checking out of this hotel anytime soon.

Then something funny happened – I hit my head on the edge of the chamber. It didn’t hurt because I was drifting across the water very slowly, but it did give me a bit of a fright. The reason I found this amusing was because it was such an obvious message from the Universe: GET OUT OF YOUR HEAD.

So I did. After I’d composed the grocery list.

After I finally let go, the most beautiful sense of peace washed over me, and even though it took me more than half the session to get to that point, it was so worth it. I felt so relaxed, in every molecule of my body, that I almost fell asleep on the train on the way home (this never happens – normally I’m furiously scribbling in my notebook or on high alert for weirdos) and that night I had the best sleep I’ve had for months.

So in other words, letting go and trusting that I will be fully supported is something I really need to get better at. If only I could figure out a way to do that without having to almost drown myself…

Why music is so important to me

I’ve been writing about some fairly heavy topics lately (grief and fear, etc) so I thought I’d lighten up the blog a little by talking about a subject I could riff on for hours: music – something we all need more of in our lives. Turns out our ear holes have a direct line to our emotions. So listening to music not only drowns out your colleague’s whiny voice, science says it also improves your emotional health. Unless you’re listening to Nickelback, which has given no benefits to anyone, ever.

US researchers have discovered that music affects deep emotional centres in the brain – so that high you feel when you hear TLC’s No Scrubs is legit joy (oh, just me then?). In a McGill University study, participants’ brains were monitored as they listened to songs they’d identified as special to them. Researchers found dopamine was released in participants’ brains when they listened to those tunes. Dopamine’s the hormone associated with rewards – FYI it surges during eating and sex (yay and yay), and with drugs such as amphetamines (not so yay).

The dopamine release happens not only because we are enjoying the song but because we have a memory of having enjoyed that song in the past embedded in our brain, and we anticipate the high points that are coming. 

Science. It’s all smart and shit.

The reason I enjoyed reading about this study was it not only validated my experience of how music has lifted me when I’ve been feeling flat and motivated me to run faster on the treadmill but because it prompted me to consider the ways music has underpinned some of my best and worst memories. The way it transports me back to a particular time and place, and accentuates key connections. Because, as a cheesy ad slogan once declared, life deserves a soundtrack.

*      Good memory – Hey Jude by The Beatles. When I was a little kid, my dad would sing this to me, replacing it with ‘Hey Truds’. For years I was convinced it was a song he’d written just for me, and was bitterly disappointed when I learned the actual lyrics, which my father had purposely botched. (Fuck you, Jude, whoever you are.) The song doesn’t necessarily make me think of my dad, but it is associated with the warm glow of childhood and feeling wholly loved and protected.

*      Bad memory – Steal my Kisses by Ben Harper. This song was special to a workmate of mine and her boyfriend, so it was played at her funeral. Even though she died 15 years ago I still cannot listen to this song. To me, it is inextricably linked with unbearable sadness and the loss of love.

*        Random memory – Freedom by George Michael. Five years ago I was in a taxi with a good friend, and this song was playing on the radio. Without talking about it or thinking about it we interrupted our conversation to simultaneously belt out the line: “SOMETIMES THE CLOTHES DO NOT MAKE THE MAN!” It was that delicious realisation that you’re perfectly in sync with someone, just for a moment, and knowing you’ve just forged a shared memory. The poor taxi driver did not enjoy it so much; he got such a fright he almost drove off the road. Sometimes my friend will text me that lyric out of the blue and it makes me laugh every time.

Maybe this post has reminded you of the good, bad and odd memories that come flooding back when you hear certain songs. Seems like a good reason to turn up the volume, right?

Random but related: after I wrote this post, I did my daily angel card pull (I do one for myself before I draw a card for you guys every day): I got the ‘play music’ card. If that’s not spiritual validation, I don’t know what is.

I'm very sorry for your loss. How can I help?

In February I wrote a letter to a Canadian woman I had never met. I had seen an appeal on social media by the woman’s daughter asking people around the world to send letters of hope and well wishes to her mother who was nearing the end of her struggle with pancreatic cancer. Because I do volunteer work at rest homes I have seen how much a simple handwritten letter means to people who are suffering and feeling alone, so I put pen to paper.

Sadly, a fortnight ago I found a message in my ‘other’ inbox on Facebook (which I seldom check) from this lovely woman’s daughter, letting me know her mother had passed away the day before my letter arrived. She attached a photo of a wall (see below) covered with letters from around the world, and said that it had brought her some comfort to know that so many people cared so much.

Once I got over my annoyance that it had taken me three days to post my letter (!) I realised that a beautiful thing had happened in this Ontario town. In a time of immense pain, this lady was able to derive a small measure of peace from small but powerful acts of kindness by complete strangers. It was a heartwarming thing to bear witness to, as well as to have participated in, in a very tiny way. Of course, no wall of letters can protect her from the unrelenting ferocity of grief but perhaps this visible reminder of the power of hope can provide fleeting moments of shelter.

This got me thinking about the ways we can help people as they grieve. I’m not talking about strangers here, I’m talking about the people we care about. It’s heart-wrenching watching someone dear to you in absolute agony over the loss of someone dear to them. What do you say? It’s hard not to fall into well-meaning but ultimately useless clichés: “Let me know if there’s anything I can do”; “Call me if you ever want to talk”; or the woefully inadequate: “time heals all wounds…” It’s so difficult to know what you can do that will actually help.

There are Cheryl Strayed quotes for these situations, as there are for every emotional quandary. A man wrote to Cheryl (aka ‘Dear Sugar’) asking for advice on how to support his partner as she grieved the death of her mother. Nothing he did seemed to help, he wrote, and it was tearing him to pieces seeing her in so much pain. Cheryl’s response explained that we have a tendency to want to rush in and offer advice or practical solutions when someone we care about is suffering. But what counts, she says, is not *how* we show up for that person, it’s simply that we *do* show up for them, again and again and again. We keep in contact. We let them cry. We listen. What comes from our heart is more important than what comes from our mouth. Anyway, that’s what I took from Cheryl’s response. Here’s what she actually wrote: “It feels lame because we like to think we can solve things. It feels insufficient because there is nothing we can actually do to change what’s horribly true. But compassion isn’t about solutions. It’s about giving all the love that you’ve got.”

Yes, it is. Thanks, Cheryl.

 

The 'letter wall'.

PS: On a lighter note, I got chocolate smeared all over my keyboard in the process of writing this post. Totally worth it. Happy Easter, everyone.

Nobody wants to feel vulnerable. But everybody needs to. Here's why

Have you ever had one of those dreams where you’re at school or work, and suddenly you look down and realise you’re completely naked? That sensation of feeling exposed has been a constant for me since I started this blog, and I’m starting to realise that that’s a good thing.

Renowned vulnerability and shame researcher Brene Brown talks about a ‘vulnerability hangover’ – that stomach-churning feeling of dread that occurs when you’ve revealed more of your true self than you have before, and now you feel emotionally exposed, ashamed and probably full of self-loathing. You’ve shattered the façade of coolness and competency, revealed your authentic self, and in doing so have put yourself up for judgment and potential ridicule.

Perhaps you texted someone asking if they’d like to go on a date, and they haven’t replied. Maybe you told your workmates about your battle with post-natal depression and they hurriedly changed the subject. Perhaps you started a blog where you outlined your deepest fears, your slightly left-of-field spiritual beliefs and all the things that make you different. (Um, hello!)

I think you can see where I’m going with this. 

Depending on the type of content, I get a massive vulnerability hangover almost every time I post on this blog, and it can last for days. I've penned some very personal stories in this space, and in one instance, the exposure factor made me felt so yucky that I could not bear to publish that post for two days. Eventually I did, because I knew that would help me destabilise my fears… but I can’t tell you how sick I felt about it. 

There aren’t enough hash browns in all of McDonald’s to ease a vulnerability hangover.

Brene Brown has dedicated her academic career to teaching us why allowing ourselves to be vulnerable is an act of strength, not of weakness, and it can transform the human experience. She is incredible – seriously, if you see only one TED talk in your lifetime, make it this one... there’s a good reason it’s one of the most viewed talks on the channel. Brene writes that being encased in a self-protective shell hampers the extent to which we can grow and fully experience life – the way we love, belong, trust, feel joy and express creativity, etc – in all its uncertain glory.

Being vulnerable is not, by the way, the same as revealing details about yourself in a bid to get attention or sympathy. Celebrities are not making themselves vulnerable when they post nude pictures or TMI details about their health; they are only revealing the extent of their low self-esteem and need for validation.

Back to my own vulnerability hangover. I am happy to report that, so far, I have lost no friends as a result of making myself vulnerable on this blog, and I am not aware of anyone slagging me off (although I can’t rule it out).

Actually, some wonderful things have happened. I am more (quietly) confident and more self-assured. I am less controlling of my own and other people’s behaviours, less afraid of judgment, less afraid of isolation, and less afraid of all the one thousand and one things that could go wrong at any given moment. I don't think that is solely due to the blog; I've been doing a lot of work on improving my low self-esteem and I'm sure that has been a major contributor. But being vulnerable, I am realising, is an essential part of growth, and by doing so I have strengthened my relationship with myself. By forcing out of the shadows the sense of shame that I had held at my core, I am seeing myself in a more compassionate, more accepting light. I feel like I am starting to become the person I was supposed to be all along but had not felt safe enough to let myself be. 

It has also transformed my relationships with others. In the process of opening myself up and revealing unflattering details about myself, I have forged deeper connections with people already in my life, and established common ground with strangers. And in that process, many of these people have revealed the rawness of their humanity to me, too. People’s pain. People’s insecurities. People’s fragility. I am seeing old friends in a brave new light. I have once again been reminded that though we are different, we really are all the same.

None of this was the purpose of my blog, but it is a better outcome than I could have expected.

There’s a sentence by lyrical US writer Andrew Solomon that I scrawled in the front page of my diary at the start of this year and I come back to it every time I need to be reminded of my inherent value. It’s the closest thing to a life motto I have. It reads: “If you can give language to experiences previously starved for it, you can make the world a better place.”

Through this blog I am making my world a better place. I can't help you or anyone else make your own world better – that job belongs to you – but if me writing about my journey of personal growth prompts you to ask yourself new and pressing questions about what you stand for, where you are going and how you might be keeping yourself hidden, my ongoing vulnerability hangover might *just* have been worth it.

It still feels yucky though.

Why we need more surprises in life

My brother and sister-in-law are having a baby later this year (sidebar: I’m going to be an aunty – yay!) and they’ve opted not to find out the gender. Initially I thought this was ridiculous – how can you prepare adequately if you don’t know what you’re having?! – but my normally ultra-pragmatic sister-in-law explained that they chose not to find out because “there are so few surprises in life”. I get that now.

When you think about it, the element of surprise is in desperately short supply these days. 

Everything we need to know is at our fingertips. We can find out the rough time a storm front will roll into town and saturate our washing line, the score of every game of hockey being played at any given moment and the names of game shows currently being watched in Uruguay. We’re used to having data at our fingertips so it’s quite disconcerting and mildly panicky when you aren’t given the information you want at any given moment. In the digital age, instant gratification is our MO.

On Saturday I went to this rad cool crazy event called Underground Cinema which is sort of like a murder mystery night. You buy a ticket a few weeks in advance and get told the theme – in this case, the 1950s and American politics – then you’re invited to a secret meeting where you get your first clue. A day before, you get told the location, then you turn up on the night with the instructed random items (in this case an A4 envelope and some earphones) then you have to follow a series of clues by questioning actors (who played their parts brilliantly) and each other, and making your way to the venue where the movie will be screened.

For a control freak like me, this lack of advance information is stress-inducing. How will I get there if I don’t know where I’m going? How late will I be out? What will I wear? I mean, is the venue going to be covered? Will I have to walk on paving stones in heels? And crucially, will there be food? I can’t go more than three hours without a decent meal – not even kidding.

Once I forced myself to take a chill pill, I realised it’s this lack of information that makes the event so much fun, and so memorable. The anticipation and the ‘what movie do you think we’ll be watching?’ chats with my friends in the lead-up make the night enthralling, and I think if I’d known the movie and the schedule of the night in advance it would still be enjoyable – but nowhere near as much.

Sometimes when I’m doing angel card readings I get people demanding specifics: when will I meet my soul mate? How many years will there be between my children? Will my best friend get deployed to Afghanistan next month? (Seriously – that is an actual question I have been asked.) This is problematic because the spiritual realm doesn’t think about timing in the same way we schedule-crazed humans do. Everything we need to know is revealed to us exactly when we need to know it, and not a minute before. For people used to being given deadlines and Outlook meeting appointments, this lack of clarity is outrageous. But the thing is, we’re not supposed to have all the information at once.

I’m one of those people who reads the last page of a book in advance. I also have a tendency to, while watching a movie, read the Wikipedia plot in full. It’s not that I’m not enjoying the story or the plot, it’s just that I want to know that everything is going to work out OK. But it always does work out OK – or at least, it works out how it’s supposed to – regardless of me knowing what will happen or not. It’s very difficult for me to let go of a desire to know the outcome.

I’m starting to realise that we need more surprises in our lives. There’s such beauty in not knowing where life is leading us, or how our story is going to play out.

More surprises, please. But only good ones, obvs.