the hero & the bitch

As a child, I was the architect of an exquisite and impenetrable fortress. Despite my best efforts, I could not build it around my exterior, and so I went in and many layers deep. I built a panic room in a coal mine, and I spent decades there. 

I've always considered myself a kind and gentle person. I shy away from confrontation and conflict. I'm empathetic, and often overly so, at the expense of my own feelings. 

But when I am hurt, when my boundaries have been crossed, or when I perceive someone to be a whole lotta talk with little to no action, I shut it down. 

When I'm done, I'm done. 

“I am a planet of love with a hair-trigger drawbridge that closes without much warning.”

— Danielle LaPorte

This tendency to show up in relationships, my smudged face peering out suspiciously from within the safety of my subterranean shelter, has often meant their failure. I didn't speak to my dad for 20 years. My best friend and I didn't speak for five. Stonewalling has contributed to the death of several romances, including that with my daughter's father. Often I fear that stonewalling will be the thing to kill my relationship with my daughter, too. 

I seem so cold, so unfeeling, so insensitive and cruel.

Really, I'm just too damn sensitive. 

It's taken me 30 years to learn how to soften into feeling instead of sequestering myself from it. And it's taken me a few more years to learn that being soft and open still does not mean I have to take any shit. 

Recently, in her blog post three things great leaders get about change, alicia talked about the difference between power and leadership. "leadership is what they say yes to. power is what they say no to [...] masterful implementation of change, the exquisite blending of yes and no, is how potential is achieved." 

I think there's a misconception in all this new conversation about wholeheartedness and vulnerability, and even in the "New Age" appropriation of concepts like manifestation and gratitude and love, that we are supposed to say yes to everything. To that I say, no. Just, no. 

Our potential is in our yes. But our power is in our no. 

My worthiness superhero is the one who says "yes." She leans in, she hangs on and asks "Is this fear, or is this intuition?" Asked on a date? Ok, sure. Feeling scared to share a thought or feeling? Go ahead, it's ok. Having a tender day where my heart feels as though perched upon an open window-sill? Get on your mat, take a bath, have a good cry. It's all so brutiful, isn't it? 

My gatekeeper is the one who says "no." She is the power broker, the bitch. No, that didn't feel ok. No, I will not be spoken to that way. No, this isn't what we want. 

She is tough. And she scares me sometimes. I worry that she is too rough, too cold, too judgmental, too reactive. I worry that she leads with fear, not love. 

But the truth is, her love is in her fierce and unwavering loyalty. Like a CFO or Secret Service agent, her only concern is keeping me safe, getting me where I want to go, and protecting our bottom line. The more she says "no," the more more opportunities my hero has to say "yes." 

It is a symbiotic relationship, one that has drawn me out from the depths of myself. And as surprised as I was to discover the existence of my co-conspirators — the hero & the bitch — I was more surprised to discover what it is that they have in common:

They are both bravely facing forward, out towards the world, leading with love.

Every hero needs a sidekick, a little badass yang to the open-hearted yin. 

i need a hero

I've done a lot of therapy in my life. Some of it has been really good, some of it really not so good.

The good has brought me to startling levels of self-awareness and understanding. It has brought me the validation I've needed. Solace, accountability, clarity. 

But rarely has it ever helped me know where to go from there.

It turns out, that when you want to be different, when you want to change — to be less reactive or bolder, to be softer or unflinching — cataloging your various issues does little to get you there. 

It's not enough to know what you're moving away from. You have to know where you're going. 

In their book Working on Yourself Doesn't Work, authors Ariel and Shya Kane suggest that it is only through assuming a position of compassionate curiosity towards oneself (rather than an active "I'm gonna fix what's broke" attitude) that we can truly transform. 

What this looks like is simply paying attention. We welcome all we notice with loving kindness. And then slowly, over time, we start making different choices. Our attitudes and words and actions start to shift. The transformation happens organically. 

To use Danielle LaPorte's words, you have to leave the church of self improvement for the temple of you. 

It takes a willingness to look. At all of it. It takes reverence and awe and a sense of humor. You have to be willing to welcome your shadow and your light. Not just the shiny parts. Not just the socially acceptable parts.

Every last human part of you. 

Brené Brown, the mama bear of the vulnerability movement, says in her book Daring Greatly, that "None of us is ever able to part with our survival strategies without significant support and the cultivation of replacement strategies." 

If this is true (and it is), then where do we find that significant support? How do we cultivate replacement strategies?

We can find support in our family and friends, in books or music, at an ashram, or in therapy. We can stop drinking, lying, overeating, overspending, being a doormat, and take up yoga or meditation. We can embrace radical honesty. We can embrace our fragile, mystical humanness. 

But how do we do that? Because anyone who has tried to break a habit or reinvent themselves knows that the struggle is real. When we start recognizing shimmery bits of our truth, our true nature, our soul says "Yes! That!" It falls in love all at once. But our behavior, our bodies and minds, resist. They cling to what is known, what is familiar. And it's not to be stubborn. It's not for lack of willpower, or weakness of character. We literally have a primal aversion to doing things differently. We evolved that way. To our amygdala, anything unfamiliar is unsafe. 

It's an epic battle. Not between good and evil (because really, we're all so, so good), but between what has been and what can be. 

And when the fate of your potential happiness hangs in the balance, what do you do to assure victory? 

You call in your worthiness superhero. 

They offer significant support and a replacement strategy. A way to define what Brown calls your "practiced values" (what you do), and then cultivate your "aspirational values" (what you want to do).

I've known and worked with Alicia for several years. And so I knew of Stan through conversation, though it wasn't until last year that I met her myself, in Positano. Stan is Alicia's worthiness superhero. She is the strongest, bravest, most resilient parts of Alicia. Truth be told, they're really not so different, even though the magic of a worthiness superhero is saying that they are. 

I have created my own worthiness superhero. She is outgoing and outspoken. Ace at negotiation, relationships, and loving unconditionally. She's had many names and has shown up in many ways in my work over the years, without me knowing it until now. I couldn't recognize her until I knew she was there.

When my back is against the ropes and the urge to just duck out is strong, she is the one who steels us and throws the first punch. We may still end up flat on the floor, but we fought the whole way down. 

And so here we are, us four. Alicia and Stan, me and mine. I so hope that you choose to join us here. To share your stories, your characters, your worthiness superheroes. We're all in this together, as they say. You're never really alone. 

Whoosh.

-Shannon