Stepping Into the Arena

"I feel like the only person who believes in me is my coach," I said, though I used more colorful language. "I feel completely inadequate."

"Don't you know?" he said, matter-of-factly.

Fear struck me. Was he confirming this? Did he, too, find me inadequate?

"Don't I know what?" I asked.

"Don't you know that you can do it?"

He couldn't believe that I didn't believe in myself.

He and I talked often of motivation, hard work, and fearing versus not fearing. I always concluded that he is strong where I am not, and there he was again, being the strong one by speaking courage into my life.

In the previous 24 hours, I had been dealt a serious blow-- a career setback that left me reeling and damaged relationships that have yet to be repaired. I felt helpless. I felt like everyone was watching me fail. I didn't know who to trust. It was easier to place blame, but I reckoned with the truth that, in many ways, I was my own casualty. (About a week or so later, when he asked me what I was working on, I said, "Just practicing. I have some ass to kick." If he had asked me, Whose? I would have said, My own.)

The first thing I knew I had to do was take some risks and step into the arena.

In her new book, Rising Strong, Brene Brown defines an arena as "any moment when or place where we have risked showing up and being seen." The idea is that if we are going to be in the arena--- all eyes on us, letting our truth and our vulnerabilities be seen and known-- failure is not only possible, but probable. We are going to have "facedown moments."

Here's where it really gets tough. Over the course of several days, which then turned into weeks, I lost much more than I was ever prepared to lose. The cost was personally significant. One thing I gained, however, was ownership of myself as a dancer, and another: courage.

The first day out on the floor-- by myself, pushing myself-- felt terrifying. I trembled. I couldn't find my balance. I shook out my hands three or four times and clumsily placed my ear buds back into my ears again and again. I think I even bumped into someone. I struggled. I feared. I may have run to the bathroom and cried. But you know what? It got easier.

"...the process of struggling and navigating hurt has as much to offer us as the process of being brave and showing up...Rising strong after a fall is how we cultivate wholeheartedness in our lives; it's the process that teaches us the most about who we are...If we can learn how to feel our way through these experiences and own our stories of struggle, we can write our own brave endings." ~Brene Brown, Rising Strong

I have learned that there are two kinds of people: those who only believe in you when you "prove" yourself worthy by their standards and those who believe in you because you are worthy. Find the true believers, and believe also in yourself.

This is only one story among many teaching me about value and wholeheartedness. You can't show up and be courageous in the face of adversity without coming from a place of worthiness. And even when the words "It's not personal, it's professional" sting so sharply, I'm thankful that redemption always works the other way around. My story is not one of professional growth, but of personal growth.

What is your arena? What stories of courage do you have to tell?