Rising up when it all falls apart – the difference between failing and being a failure
This week I will hand back the keys to the practice
where I’ve been offering reiki treatments. Long-time readers of my blog may
remember that 12 months ago, I took a massive leap of faith and committed to a
one-year lease on a room at a health and wellbeing practice here in Sydney. I
planned to offer reiki treatments two days a week (read that blog post here),
and hoped that I could grow a client base and eventually make this, combined with
my angel card reading service, a career alternative. It was a big financial risk… and
it has not, unfortunately, paid off. The very worst result that could have
happened – the one I was most afraid of – has indeed happened. And I’m OK with
that. Now.
For a long time I was not OK. In February it became
apparent that my business was not working.
That, on top of a (temporary but prolonged) drought in my primary source of
income, plunged me into a state of despair... not to mention debt.
When I realised there was nothing I could do but
watch money flow down the drain until my commercial lease ran out, the sense of
disappointment was immense. I had lovingly stacked my hopes and dreams, along
with significant sums of money, into this business, and it had not worked. I
had wholeheartedly trusted that having faith was enough to make my dreams come
true... and I was wrong. I couldn’t not see this failure as an indictment on my
skills and my worth. The failure of my business felt like
proof that I was a failure as a person. My inner bully’s cries of “I
knew you’d fuck it up!” were deafening.
Business leaders around the world consistently
describe the experience of losing everything as integral to shaping their
success. JK Rowling famously had her Harry Potter manuscripts rejected 12 times.
“I was the biggest failure I knew,” she said. When Bloomsbury Publishing took a
punt and printed her first three books, it warned her not to quit her day job.
As we all know, Joanne went on to achieve stratospheric levels of success. Yet
on 12 previous occasions, she had failed. It was not her moment to shine… until
it was. The Universe has a schedule all its own.
Failure is a blistering, heavy word. The most unhelpful thing
anyone said to me when I was coming to realise things were not turning out as
I’d hoped was: “Just think positive – it’ll all work out.” Please, never say this to
someone going through a significant challenge. It implies they’re not trying hard enough, that a lack of faith is
the cause of their struggle and that getting what they want is a mere case of
wishing for it (a wildly inaccurate interpretation of the law of attraction).
So, so unhelpful.
What *was* helpful for me as I licked my wounds was reframing the situation. There’s a difference between failing
and being a failure. The former means I haven’t had success yet; the latter
indicates I am flawed on a personal level. Once I understood the distinction
between the two – and stopped beating myself up – I found my way to a space of
acceptance. Instead of seeing myself as incompetent I was (eventually)
able to depersonalise the experience, and recognise failure as a necessary step
in my development. Brene Brown says: “Failure is an imperfect word
because the minute you learn from it, it ceases to be a failure.”
Although the Universe didn’t meet me halfway on this business plan, it
did issue me with an invitation to grow. Learn from this, and you’ll
become more resilient. Learn from this, and you’ll navigate future obstacles
better. Learn from this, and new doors will open up to you, opportunities better
than you could have scripted. The secret of life, as Paulo Coelho expressed so
exquisitely in The Alchemist, is to fall down seven times and
get up eight.
There are all sorts of reasons why my reiki
practice likely didn’t fire. It could have been the wrong area. It could have
been (and most likely was) simply the wrong timing. It was 100 per cent not
lack of skills nor lack of effort on my part. I know that I could not have put
anything more into that business. I have no regrets… now.
So when I take my certificates off the wall and
push my business cards through the shredder, I will remember the difference
between failing and being a failure. I will remind myself that I am not defined
or diminished by this disappointment. And as I let go of my expectations I will
hold space for shiny new opportunities.
Your move, Universe.
Why criticism stings so badly, and why we can't afford to hide from it
*Trigger warning: contains bullying themes*
What is the worst thing someone has ever said to you, or about
you? The thing that stung so badly you can feel yourself plunging into a
barbed-wire pit at the memory?
Maybe you had to think about it. Maybe a dossier of vitriolic words
sprung into your mind immediately. Maybe you simply don’t care what people
think of you (if you fall into this category, I’m assuming you’re either a cat
or Lena Dunham).
I’ve written a lot about my difficulty in accepting compliments and praise, but it wasn’t until last week at a talk by prominent vulnerability
researcher and TED Talk star Brené Brown that I started thinking about the ways
criticism, and the fear of it, have shaped my choices and behaviours.
Brené, who was in Sydney to open The School Of Life, described the
eye-wateringly savage comments made about her 2010 TED Talk (which,
incidentally, remains one of the top five talks of all time). These included
nasty remarks about her appearance and her weight, and expressions of “pity”
for her husband and children. Because if you really want to wound a woman, and
you are protected by the anonymity of the world wide web, you go straight for
the jugular – her looks (which is how society measures her value) and her
worthiness to be loved by others (which is how she measures her value).
For me, the most devastating criticisms were made in my adolescence.
Unlike the other kids at my small religious school, I was not from a rich
family. I did not wear surf labels, I wore clothes handed down from my older
cousins. My dad was in the building trade, not a lawyer or accountant. I had
zero interest in watching, or participating in, sport (this was a cardinal sin
in provincial New Zealand). I was a sharp, eager learner, and I knew big words
that other kids did not. In essence, this is the (unrequested) feedback I got:
you’re different, you don’t belong, no one wants to be your friend, and, most
stingingly, no one will ever marry you. These junior emotional assassins
managed to cut through to the core desires of me and every human being: to be
loved and to belong.
While I was reflecting upon this ugly chapter of my life, I came undone
under the weight of one very heavy memory. I remember going to a school disco
and being so ridiculed for what I was wearing that I ran into the cloakroom,
climbed to the top of the locker cube and spent the entire night lying against
the wall so no one could see me, counting down the hours until Dad arrived in
his ute to pick me up. This happened more than 25 years ago, but in many ways I
am still that little girl in the pink corduroy skirt making herself as small as
possible. I am still searching for acceptance. I am forever mourning for the
cool, popular, enviable person I will never be.
That’s the thing about the most hurtful criticisms, the ones we never
forget – they maim us because they appear to confirm a belief we secretly held
about ourselves: that we are not good enough. Yes, bullying is an extreme
example, but the intensity of the criticism is not the point. When you are
criticised, either for what you’ve done or for who you are, it will make you
want to retreat and protect yourself. It will make you sorry you tried to do
that brave thing, and highly unlikely to do so ever again. It will make you
want to hurt other people. It will make you paint yourself as flawed,
inadequate and unworthy; you will be wrong on all three counts.
Bestselling author Liz Gilbert does not read reviews, an experience she
describes as biting into a sandwich of broken glass. Brené carries around a one
inch by one inch piece of paper on which she’s listed the names of the few
people whose opinions she cares about. If your name is not on the list, she
will disregard your feedback. Because if you are sitting in the cheap seats
passing judgement on others instead of standing up, baring your soul, living a
life you are proud of and risking getting your arse kicked, Brené has no time
for your opinion.
Brené absolutely 100 per cent cannot let fear of
criticism stop her from making herself vulnerable in her work, her
relationships and her life choices. Because she knows from her research that being
vulnerable is how we grow and connect. Vulnerability, she says, is showing up
and being seen when you don’t know what the outcome will be. Courage is risking
people judging you. It is unwise to stop caring what people think of you, she
notes – because then you stop connecting. Human beings are wired for connection
– and (in my opinion) those connections are what gives life meaning. For many
years I held back from connecting with people because I was not willing to risk
being truly seen. I was safe, but one-dimensional. One of the ways I have made
myself vulnerable is by being open about my ability to communicate with angels,
and risking being labelled a weirdo.
If we want to live full, satisfying, meaningful lives and experience
deep relationships, we must risk criticism, judgement and negative feedback. We
must dare to stand out even though we may be mowed down by the people who are
playing safe. If we do not, we will never know all that we can be and all that
we are capable of.
As one of my favourite quotes (the one on my Facebook page cover
picture) declares: “Our tragedy isn’t in the failing, it’s in the not trying.
We are here to risk our hearts.”
RELATED POSTS: With compliments. Just own it, darling
When it comes to love and kindness, the little things are really the big things
If I asked you to name your most meaningful
experiences from the past 12 months, you would, I suspect, start filing through
your brain for extraordinary events. You would tell me about the weddings you
attended, the holidays you took, the babies you met for the first time and the
promotions or professional awards you scored. You would not, I suspect, mention
the hug you gave a workmate that she really needed but could not find the words
to ask for, the time you got the bus driver wait for someone who was running
behind, the money you donated to a charity or the delighted smile you received
from your grandma when you popped over for a cup of tea.
We tend to think that the milestones and the firsts
are the most meaningful moments in our lives, so we cherish those memories (and
for good reason). We tend to disregard the brief moments of connection that
don’t change our lives irrevocably, but carry layers of meaning we don’t
perceive right away. I believe – and I’ve said this many times – that the little
things are really the big things.
There used to be a forwarded email doing the rounds
(remember the days when we used to forward emails instead of retweeting or
sharing on Facebook?!) by an anonymous woman who described how her boyfriend
always waved to strangers when he’s driving, even if they look at him like he’s
a weirdo. When she asked him why he did this, he told her that he’d read
stories by people who had attempted suicide; some had said that if they’d been
acknowledged by someone else they wouldn’t have wanted to end their lives. For
that reason, he was committed to extending warmth to everyone he saw, to make
sure no one felt invisible or insignificant. This is a very small act of
kindness, but a very powerful one.
Of course we should celebrate the big stuff, but I wish
we could do a better job at recognising the successes that really reflect our
job in this lifetime – the times we give love to others, and received it with
gratitude. One of the best things that happened to me last week was an
out-of-the-blue phone call from a friend in the US who knew I’d been going
through a rough time, so wanted to check how I was going. I doubt that was a
big deal for her, but to me it meant the world.
Brené Brown writes: “Joy comes to us in ordinary
moments. We risk missing out when we get too busy chasing down the
extraordinary.” Sometimes in those ordinary moments, we’re a conduit to other
people’s joy – and we may not even realise it. To me, that is the very
definition of extraordinary.
I hope you create and experience lots of little wins
this week.
RELATED POSTS: Just listen. It's all anyone needs you to do
How to let go of pain: pick up a pen and paper
I’ve long been an advocate for writing as a means of
healing. Putting pen to paper, or fingertips to keyboard, has been the best
weapon in my arsenal for plumbing the depths of my emotions and moving past
hurts – particularly when an issue involves another person.
The other day I came across some academic endorsement
of the catharsis I have experienced via the written word (yay science!).
In her book Rising
Strong, vulnerability expert Brene Brown references research from James
Pennebaker at the University of Texas. James says: “Emotional upheavals touch
every part of our lives. You don’t just lose a job, you don’t just get
divorced. These things affect all aspects of who we are – our financial
situation, our relationships with others, our views of ourselves, our issues of
life and death. Writing helps us focus and organise the experience.”
Pennebaker’s study, published in the Journal of Consulting and Clinical
Psychology, found that participants who wrote about traumatic experiences
for four consecutive days reported greater happiness three months later,
visited the doctor less than usual during the following six weeks and seemed to
have a healthier immune system compared with the control group who wrote about
superficial topics.
Essentially, he says, translating painful and
confusing experiences into words helps us get to grips with what happened,
which helps us navigate our way through. We become active creators in our own
life stories rather than passive bystanders.
I’ve never tried the four-day exercise that Pennebaker
advocates, but I did use writing as therapy recently when a friend did
something really shitty to me that left me reeling. My first instinct was to
contact him and force him to explain his actions, but my wounded pride would
not let me. I’m glad I hesitated, because communicating with him before I had
got my thoughts in order would mean I would have likely launched some personal
attacks that I would regret forevermore (and looked like a dick in the
process).
What I did instead was write him a letter (using pen
and paper, so I’m less likely to edit it as I go) being very specific about why
I was upset. I wrote two pages, and when I read it back, I could see a very
clear pattern. My tone had changed from being angry and accusatory to being
self-reflective. Which is a helpful progression. I’d expressed my pain without
having to confront him, and had managed to make sense of it to the point where
I recognised how I had contributed to the situation by having unrealistic
expectations of his behaviour. I was still unhappy about the event but I was no
longer furious at him. Anger, after all, is a secondary emotion, masking a
deeper fear – if we want to move past what happened, we need to find out the issue
underlying the anger. I did not send the letter; I did not need to.
When you feel overwhelmed by emotions sometimes you
just don’t want to do the things you know will help. You feel justified being
angry, so you don’t *want* to move past it. But I know from experience that if
I can funnel my emotions onto a piece of paper, I will process the experience
in a much more helpful way. And when the lesson has been learned, the Universe
won’t send me that situation again.
This entire blog is testament to the power of the
written word to ease the pain of the human heart, and build a bridge to peace.
Almost every post I have written has reshaped my emotional landscape and
empowered me to be proactive in working through the challenges I face.
If there’s something you’re struggling with right now,
I’d recommend you try writing about it. Don’t worry about being clever or
lyrical or creative, just be honest about how you feel. It might not resolve
your pain but I bet it will give you some clarity to move forward.
RELATED POSTS: In praise of writing. How to make every moment count.
Does social media make us narcissists? No, but it can reveal a lot about how we view ourselves
When it comes to
narcissism, there is perhaps no more endearing example in the world than Kanye
West. Pop culture’s king of self-aggrandisement once declared that he wished
to describe his profession as ‘creative genius’ on immigration arrival forms –
but he didn’t know how to spell the word ‘genius’ (lol).
Narcissism is
something I’ve been thinking about lately because I’ve seen a few columns
fretting that our obsession with selfies and documenting the minutiae of our
lives online is creating a generation of narcissists. I don’t agree.
Firstly, a definition
– because narcissism is not, despite popular belief, the same as arrogance or
just plain bad behaviour. During a discussion at the recent Sydney Writer’s
Festival, social commentator Anne Manne (author of Life of I: The New
Culture of Narcissism) offered these defining characteristics (among
others): having a sense of superiority; a sense of entitlement; a feeling that
you’re entitled to exploit others; and a desperate desire to gain attention to
prove you are really significant – which is where social media use really comes
under the microscope.
Brene Brown, leading researcher
in the field of vulnerability, describes narcissism as “a shame-based fear of
being ordinary”. At its core, she writes, narcissism is driven by a fear of not
being enough.
I’m not sure what
this says about the industry I’m in, but I’ve worked with more than a few
people who fit into the narcissism category. And I’ve certainly seen people – from
differing age groups – use social media as a platform for relentless
self-promotion, which can be uncomfortable for me to observe. But even though many
commentators have identified a correlation between social media and narcissism,
I don’t think that means social media *breeds* narcissism, as such.
My opinion is that although
there’s a good argument for all of us pulling back on our social media use and
engaging more in face-to-face interactions, wanting to showcase your life
online isn’t necessarily unhealthy. That said, if you feel like you are reliant
on multiple ‘likes’ to feel valued – and feel like you don’t matter if you don’t
achieve that – you could probably do with asking yourself some reflective
questions. The way you use social media might be a symptom, rather than a
cause, of a disconnect between what you think you have to offer the world and the
unquantifiable, exquisite value you bring to the world every day simply by
virtue of being yourself.
By the way, going
back to the narcissism thing (in case you needed some reassurance)... if you’re
worried you’re a narcissist, you’re not. Because if you were a narcissist you wouldn’t
have enough self-awareness to even consider yourself one. (Good to know.)
I’m not really sure
where this leaves Kanye, but I love his music, regardless.
* Read my blog post on comparison syndrome in relation to social media here.