This week I headed back to my martial arts class for the first time in (let's see here: pregnancy, severe illness/hospitalization, birth of our newest baby, infancy) a LONG time. I was incredibly nervous. Never mind that I have been practicing two arts under the same brilliant teacher with the same core group of friends/students for well over a decade now- since before I had children, since before I was married, since before I could legally imbibe in the hoppy nuances of adult beverages. Some part of my brain is still stuck in that place where I fear being completely unworthy and fear even more abject, utter, and humiliating failure. The vast majority of this is a result of suffering from obsessive perfectionism in the past (though I'm quite sorry to confess, I do have relapses at times). I truly felt that being the best, the brightest, the wittiest, the prettiest, the fastest, and the most fervent was the only way to be accepted or loved. So, add to that the fact that illness during pregnancy and learning to adjust to the needs of another (sleepless) child in our house has prevented a lot of socialization, and I was a bit of a wreck.
Thankfully, the Hubs knows me. Really knows me. Has known me since middle school. Has hated, befriended, become interested in, loved, and married me. Not to mention those cute kids he helped me add to our family. So, he's seen a lot, and he's become a seasoned pro at handling not only me, but all of those scornful voices that are on constant replay in my head. He knows about friends I've had that weren't, and knows that amongst any condemnation of me in the past, I'm the most likely to be the first on the scene with a torch and pitchfork.
While I was very worried in the moment, I breathed a tiny sigh of relief when the baby's high fever prevented my attending the first day of class. By the time the next class rolled around (two days later), she was fever free, but I thought: "You know I should reeeeeally just stick close to home. Just in case. I mean, sure she's playing happily and seems completely well, but these things can't be rushed, right?" So, I conveniently managed to put off my comeback for another week. Then we were suddenly in a new week, and I talked up my return to Eric and the girls, just to psych myself up. My oldest got incredibly excited and insisted that I put on my gi and hakama, so that she could see it:
Thankfully, the Hubs knows me. Really knows me. Has known me since middle school. Has hated, befriended, become interested in, loved, and married me. Not to mention those cute kids he helped me add to our family. So, he's seen a lot, and he's become a seasoned pro at handling not only me, but all of those scornful voices that are on constant replay in my head. He knows about friends I've had that weren't, and knows that amongst any condemnation of me in the past, I'm the most likely to be the first on the scene with a torch and pitchfork.
While I was very worried in the moment, I breathed a tiny sigh of relief when the baby's high fever prevented my attending the first day of class. By the time the next class rolled around (two days later), she was fever free, but I thought: "You know I should reeeeeally just stick close to home. Just in case. I mean, sure she's playing happily and seems completely well, but these things can't be rushed, right?" So, I conveniently managed to put off my comeback for another week. Then we were suddenly in a new week, and I talked up my return to Eric and the girls, just to psych myself up. My oldest got incredibly excited and insisted that I put on my gi and hakama, so that she could see it:
Mirror, Mirror, on the wall, who is the most self-deprecating of all?
Perhaps I should explain a few things. The gi is the lighter colored garment and consists of loose pants and a woven jacket that is held closed with a tied belt. This is simply what you wear to practice. The hakama is the black garment, a kind of split skirt that is worn over the gi. In my particular school, it is earned. It took years of practice four days a week, three or more hours a day to work my way up to this intricately wrapped piece of cloth. To be honest it is one of my proudest achievements. The degrees on my wall, the jobs I have held, the events I have organized, the volunteer work to which I have committed myself: They all pale in comparison. This is a tangible witness to years of incredibly hard work, thought, injury, recovery, and a complete and utter evolution of mind and spirit. So, when I put it on after being out for a year and a half, my head space was full of one word: unworthy. You can probably see it on my face. Honestly, I thought I was smiling. Apparently, I should never bet heavily in a poker game.
Li'l E was appropriately awed. She actually eschewed her normal Broadway stage projection voice for a quiet squeak of girlish excitement.
"Mama," she breathed, "you look sooooooo fancy...."
(Sweetest girl ever? I think so!)
"...like a waiter."
(She's very helpful.)
I folded everything back up and tucked it carefully in my bag. Then, I wandered about fretting over whether or not I was missing anything, whether the Hubs could handle the girls' bedtime routine solo, whether the baby would be too upset without me, whether the price of tea had risen in China. Eventually, Eric put my bag on my shoulder and gave me a firm and loving shove out the front door.
I blasted the stereo. I opened the sun roof. I reveled in being completely alone in my car. Then, I thought about arriving in class and failing. Failing completely and utterly and PUBLICLY. Failing all the friends and mentors who had spent so much time training me. Embarrassing myself with my post-partum, swiss cheese memory. Then my talent for overdramatics joined my nerves and I started texting Eric from the parking lot:
Li'l E was appropriately awed. She actually eschewed her normal Broadway stage projection voice for a quiet squeak of girlish excitement.
"Mama," she breathed, "you look sooooooo fancy...."
(Sweetest girl ever? I think so!)
"...like a waiter."
(She's very helpful.)
I folded everything back up and tucked it carefully in my bag. Then, I wandered about fretting over whether or not I was missing anything, whether the Hubs could handle the girls' bedtime routine solo, whether the baby would be too upset without me, whether the price of tea had risen in China. Eventually, Eric put my bag on my shoulder and gave me a firm and loving shove out the front door.
I blasted the stereo. I opened the sun roof. I reveled in being completely alone in my car. Then, I thought about arriving in class and failing. Failing completely and utterly and PUBLICLY. Failing all the friends and mentors who had spent so much time training me. Embarrassing myself with my post-partum, swiss cheese memory. Then my talent for overdramatics joined my nerves and I started texting Eric from the parking lot:
Did I mention that he is a professional Me-handler? Quite so. When a man can manage to mock your speaking cadence through text in a loving manner? Heck, y'all, that's a keeper! Thankfully, it was enough to get me to giggle nervously and get out of the car. I headed through the door and ran smack into my favorite, longest known girlfriend-in-gi before I had even fully crossed the threshold. The happy reunion and hugs that started with her and carried through with many of the people who have helped me unfailingly within those four walls, really did worlds for me. I bowed onto the mat and threw my self (sure, pun intended!) back into practice. Old friends were quick to pair up and offer their help. Some things came right back to me. Some movements were so deeply ingrained in muscle memory that the flowing motion carried me through the responses without me even realizing it. And then there were some things that hiccuped in my mind as I was expected to respond specifically to a fast attack flying towards me. In those moments, it was all I could do to simply get out of the way, forget grace or ability.
But you know what happened when I made mistakes? No one doubted me. No one was disappointed. Everyone was gracious and patient when I stumbled and enthusiastic with praise when I succeeded. Soon, I wasn't so aware of my heart thumping in my chest and my hands didn't tremble as I reached forward to perform. And I was reminded of what it is like to be back in a group of people that are supportive and kind. There are plenty of people who are quick to be witty at the expense of others, and I'm quite sure that I've been one of them before. When you're younger and know absolutely everything and are invincible, you're stupid enough to go for the laugh when other people make mistakes. It's only through making a wealth of your own mistakes (big, messy, humiliating, and painful) and being able to own and acknowledge them, that you can truly appreciate the people who are first to reach out a hand and help you back up. And then there are the people who tend to disparage out of some misplaced sense of competition. This can happen so often in a dojo, or in a work place, or just in a social circle. People feel the need to snipe and assert dominance. People that have sadly never realized the truth behind: The More the Merrier. Each of us helping one another to excel, simply makes life that much richer and full for all of us! We should hope to fill our lives with people who make us better, who challenge us. As my husband never tires of reminding me:
If you are the smartest person in the room, you're in the wrong place.
I'm so incredibly thankful to have found a place full of people who realize that each and every person has something to contribute and that there is not one of us who has not had their "first day on the mat": that day when you enter as a stranger, not knowing what to expect, not knowing the rules of the game, not knowing where to start. And each one of us would do well to remember our own first days when interacting with any one. It has meant so much to me lately, as I find my footing in the "real world" again, to have people come into (or return to) my life who are willing to reach out a hand, to encourage, to teach, to befriend; people who I am quite certain remember so many "first days" and want to honor those who helped them or to be someone whom they wished they'd had. These are the people I most admire, most appreciate, and most hope to emulate. I always want to be a friendly face with something to share when I cross paths with anyone, especially on a first day.
But you know what happened when I made mistakes? No one doubted me. No one was disappointed. Everyone was gracious and patient when I stumbled and enthusiastic with praise when I succeeded. Soon, I wasn't so aware of my heart thumping in my chest and my hands didn't tremble as I reached forward to perform. And I was reminded of what it is like to be back in a group of people that are supportive and kind. There are plenty of people who are quick to be witty at the expense of others, and I'm quite sure that I've been one of them before. When you're younger and know absolutely everything and are invincible, you're stupid enough to go for the laugh when other people make mistakes. It's only through making a wealth of your own mistakes (big, messy, humiliating, and painful) and being able to own and acknowledge them, that you can truly appreciate the people who are first to reach out a hand and help you back up. And then there are the people who tend to disparage out of some misplaced sense of competition. This can happen so often in a dojo, or in a work place, or just in a social circle. People feel the need to snipe and assert dominance. People that have sadly never realized the truth behind: The More the Merrier. Each of us helping one another to excel, simply makes life that much richer and full for all of us! We should hope to fill our lives with people who make us better, who challenge us. As my husband never tires of reminding me:
If you are the smartest person in the room, you're in the wrong place.
I'm so incredibly thankful to have found a place full of people who realize that each and every person has something to contribute and that there is not one of us who has not had their "first day on the mat": that day when you enter as a stranger, not knowing what to expect, not knowing the rules of the game, not knowing where to start. And each one of us would do well to remember our own first days when interacting with any one. It has meant so much to me lately, as I find my footing in the "real world" again, to have people come into (or return to) my life who are willing to reach out a hand, to encourage, to teach, to befriend; people who I am quite certain remember so many "first days" and want to honor those who helped them or to be someone whom they wished they'd had. These are the people I most admire, most appreciate, and most hope to emulate. I always want to be a friendly face with something to share when I cross paths with anyone, especially on a first day.
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