I started writing about nine years ago. I had two small children and a treasure trove of as-yet-undiscovered emotional pain that needed an outlet besides late-night tequila shots and the passing-down of unhealthy parenting patterns.
I made a blog. People read it. Eventually, a lot of people read it.
I wrote about struggling to have a purpose outside of motherhood, about how from the ages of 2.6-4 I felt like my son had absolutely picked the wrong mother to be born to (all he was really doing was uncovering all that pain — the angel — but I didn’t know that yet.)
Once I realized the tequila shots were actually a problem, I wrote about that. And then once I discovered it was not only possible, but paramount that I step into the role of cyclebreaker, that.
My public unfurling, the self-discovery and healing that was beginning to take place, was inspiring people — they told me so daily. And it was happening right when vulnerability was a new public idea, when life coaching was an up-and-coming-curiosity. I bought some courses. I thought, “I can do this.”
And so I made a page on my site that offered women everything they needed to be healed and happy. I used clever names for my packages. I was on-trend-soulful and irreverent. I promised something hollow, but enticing.
I got clients. I had arrived.
And then at the height of all of it — tens of thousands of site visitors, pieces translated into languages I can’t speak, regular publication in the then-coveted HuffPost, a sold out weekend-long coaching event in Boston — I gave it all up.
I was a fraud and I knew it.
I hadn’t done enough personal work to be able to really help people. I was chasing the image of the self-made entrepreneurial woman — which had already become the modern marker of success it continues to be. I wanted to be in the club and yet, my gut said, “Stop this.”
I don’t know how I had the will to listen; ignoring that voice and building a successful coaching business would have been sexier than the years of office and restaurant work that have happened instead,
But I knew I was going to ruin myself in irrevocable ways if I continued. I knew, deep in my belly, in a place where only real feelings live, that living out of alignment was that dangerous. And even though it was grief-inducing and ego-bruising and uncertain to step away from something with which I so closely identified, even though I didn’t know what would happen — I knew finding out was a more real way to live.
I was being asked to do better.
At first, I felt attacked by my knowing. I tried to reject it. I tried to defend what I was doing, to cling to it.
But eventually, I could see: nothing was going to save me from this truth. And so I surrendered into what was going to come next.
I didn’t die.
If we’re interested in growth and healing, being asked to do better forces us to look all the way down into the bottom of our shit pit. And it’s (obviously) gross down there. But scrubbing it down is a chance to experience cleaner, ordered living.
Which isn’t an attack at all — but an invitation.