#startknowing

Start Knowing. Elizabeth Gilbert said that from the stage at the Brave Magic workshop I attended last month. 

The room was full of women, white women of means to be exact. Yeah, a pretty privileged group. I didn’t love that part. It felt weird. 

But the truth is–even in the middle of all that privilege–most of the people in the room were pretty much saying “I don’t know” all the time.

There are so many things you don’t have to do.

Work xx (or x or xxx) hours a week.

Have Twitter.

Diet, or even try to be thin.

Do holidays how others wish you would or expect you should.

Sit on boards or attend the thing.

Tell your #metoo story to the world.

Raise your hand if you’ve used crisis energy to get you through. Yeah, me too. It’s not always bad. I’m not completely against it. Responding to a crisis gets your adrenaline going—energy!—so it works.

But Crisis Mode is no place to live; it takes a toll. If you make Crisis Mode your go-to, you’ll pay for it with your mental health, a broken body, sinking relationships, or a burned out career. The cost is just too high. So I'm not paying the Crisis Mode tax anymore.

There’s another choice I am practicing when I have the wherewithal these days. It’s simple, effective, and makes me feel better than Crisis Mode does.

Stop.

Take a breath.

Put your shoes on.

Grab a partner (if you want).

Go outside.

Even if it’s too early, even if you’re running late.

Take one step forward—literally, physically.

Let the motion propel you forward, into the next step.

Take a walk, for realsies.

Keep walking.

Keep walking.

Keep walking.

See where it takes you.

Who knows, maybe it leads to Knowing the right next step to take.

Measured, intentional action guided by your wise mind.

If not, well, at least you got your walk in and saw a pretty view.

The people-pleasing part of me is worried today. The highly sensitive person in me is grateful because I’ve made some decisions for me.

Here are some things I tell myself when I need to make a boundary:

My time is my time, only mine. I get to decide what to do with it.

I’m responsible for myself. Nobody else. Not you. Or you. Or him. Or her.

I get to ask for what I need. And I give myself what I need.

I get to rest whenever I am tired, even if (especially because) I need more rest than others might.

I eat when I’m hungry. Hunger isn’t noble or helpful to me or anyone.

It’s okay to slow down. Maybe I need to have a slower day today.