Jul 30, 2023 | Sovereignty, Women's Voice & Power, Women's Wisdom
. . . and internalized patriarchy and hope.
One of the many problems with patriarchy is that we often cannot see it, identify it, or recognize we’re swimming (if not drowning) in it. It’s everywhere and illusive, blatant and internalized, excruciating and numbing. Even for all our awareness of patriarchy’s harm, we find it almost impossible to imagine anything else, let alone dismantle it. Carol Gilligan and Naomi Snider speak powerfully to this in their book, Why Does Patriarchy Persist?:
Even as we have developed conscious attitudes of equality, there is a much larger context of unconscious ideas of what women should be that hovers like a ghost, making the transformation to mutuality between masculine and feminine subjectivities much harder than we think it should be.
This is why the Barbie movie is so important . . . and so popular. The “ghost” is exorcised and we are handed, on a very pink platter, a vision of exactly what life without patriarchy looks like. In Barbieland, women run everything, own everything, make every decision, and never apologize for or downplay their intelligence and capacity and strength. They choose themselves at every turn. They are not lacking in anything. They have no sense of not being enough. They do not ever consider themselves too much. And every night is girls’ night. More than *just* something we dreamily imagine, this is a world worth all our effort, all our passion, all our hope.
To move from imagination to reality, from the slickness of film to the grit of our day-to-day, we can take the very same descriptors of Barbie’s world to become increasingly conscious of the ways in which patriarchy impacts our own:
- Do I feel wholly in charge of my own life, my day-to-day, my reality?
- Do I have complete and more-than-sufficient financial agency, power, and freedom?
- Is any and every decision I make defined by my autonomy as well as the full acceptance of others?
- Do I refuse to apologize and/or downplay my intelligence, capacity, and strength just so others (namely men) are more accepting of me?
- Do I choose myself—always and no matter what?
- Do I have everything that men (and people with power) have in ample and assumed supply?
- Do I always know, with unswerving certainty, that I am enough?
- Do I always know and fully believe that I cannot possibly be too much?
- Is “girl’s night” (or any intentionally chosen time for self and/or with other women) a given . . . without the slightest tinge of guilt?
The answers to nearly every one of these questions—for me, and I’m guessing you, as well—are a pretty consistent “No.” Yes, it’s a sliding scale, but still. . . . I hear the voice within that is desperate to rationalize my responses, that wants me to “keep things in perspective,” and that stubbornly says “No, but . . . “
This IS internalized patriarchy, alive and kicking within me—and I’m guessing you, as well. The necessity to maintain the equilibrium at nearly any cost, the desire to honor self but not at the expense of relationship, the deeply-familiar experience of feeling torn; damned if I do and damned if I don’t—no matter what the issue or argument or choice may be. This IS the bind: rejecting patriarchy philosophically, politically, in every way AND simultaneously being caught in its web.
This is exactly what America Ferrera, as Gloria, speaks to in the film’s epic and now much-repeated monologue:
It is literally impossible to be a woman. You are so beautiful, and so smart, and it kills me that you don’t think you’re good enough. Like, we have to always be extraordinary, but somehow we’re always doing it wrong.
You have to be thin, but not too thin. And you can never say you want to be thin. You have to say you want to be healthy, but also you have to be thin. You have to have money, but you can’t ask for money because that’s crass. You have to be a boss, but you can’t be mean. You have to lead, but you can’t squash other people’s ideas. You’re supposed to love being a mother, but don’t talk about your kids all the damn time. You have to be a career woman but also always be looking out for other people. You have to answer for men’s bad behavior, which is insane, but if you point that out, you’re accused of complaining. You’re supposed to stay pretty for men, but not so pretty that you tempt them too much or that you threaten other women because you’re supposed to be a part of the sisterhood.
But always stand out and always be grateful. But never forget that the system is rigged. So find a way to acknowledge that but also always be grateful. You have to never get old, never be rude, never show off, never be selfish, never fall down, never fail, never show fear, never get out of line.
It’s too hard! It’s too contradictory and nobody gives you a medal or says thank you! And it turns out in fact that not only are you doing everything wrong, but also everything is your fault.
I’m just so tired of watching myself and every single other woman tie herself into knots so that people will like us.
It is exhausting, to be sure. We know every one of these paradoxes, aches, and demands. And yet . . . we push through, rise above, persist, and persevere. Why? Why do we allow this struggle to continue? Why don’t we REFUSE patriarchy, at least as it is up to us? Why don’t we put an end to any and all of the ways in which we compromise and comply? Why don’t we stop enabling it’s insidious presence and power?
There are lots of reasons, of course. Chief among them is the painful truth that patriarchy is sometimes-if-not-often to our benefit (especially if we are white). Gilligan and Snider’s research claims that patriarchy “protect[s] us from emotions and knowledge that have come to feel dangerous or unbearable, [which is] in part, why we continue to embrace it . . . “ In too many ways, especially for those of us with privilege, it can be far easier (mentally, emotionally, literally) to not be in charge of our own life, not have to attain financial agency, not need to make autonomous decisions, not choose ourselves, not believe we are enough, and not do anything that might be perceived as too much.
(Believe me, I’m not a fan of naming this AND I would be out of integrity if I failed to admit the times I’ve defaulted to any number of these beliefs and behaviors instead of stepping up and advocating for myself, not to mention others.)
Complicating things further is that we don’t live in Barbieland. We can’t simply deprogram every woman on the planet and be surrounded by men who are grateful to live in a world where they don’t have to be in charge. Nor do we find ourselves in a story that can be satisfactorily resolved in just over ninety minutes. Real life is far more complicated and yes, to Gloria’s point, “literally impossible” much of the time. But if the Barbie movie teaches us anything, it is that we are more than capable (and deserving) of dismantling patriarchy within ourselves and our world. “And that is an encouraging thought.”
So, how do we start/continue/persevere?
We begin by telling ourselves the truth, by acknowledging patriarchy’s certain-and-inbred presence within; the way it impacts us and the way our complicity (even if unintentional) impacts others. We bypass the immediate rush of fear or anxiety that overtakes us every time we consider stepping outside the lines and step outside the lines anyway. We say what we mean, what we think, what we feel without holding back. We accept the credit that’s due, the praise we deserve (and amply, generously, extend it to others). We remember, believe, and assert that we are more than enough and never too much. We heal our own wounds and our own stories, then rewrite them. We do the same for the stories of the matrilineage from which we descend. We dedicate ourselves to constant learning about patriarchy, its presence, its tactics, so we are equipped to do, feel, believe, and vote just the opposite.
Admittedly, to do any of this, let alone all of it, is a lot. But here’s what is also true: We are that amazing, that brave, that brilliant, that strong. Not just on the big screen while dressed in pink, but right here and right now, in this life, yours, and mine.
After I watched the movie a second time, I recalled a few lines from Judith Duerk’s book A Circle of Stones:
How might your life have been different if there had been a place for you, a place for you to go . . . a place of women, to help you learn the ways of woman . . . a place where you were nurtured from an ancient flow sustaining you and steadying you as you sought to become yourself . . . ? How might your life have been different?
Everything would have been different. And in watching the Barbie movie, I believe it still can be. Yes, there’s lots of pink and plastic and humor, but there’s even more possibility and hope. And along the way, an unforgettable glimpse into a world in which women—when not affected by patriarchy—are fully, completely, and unapologetically themselves.
For me, this ideal and yes, this hope, is far more than something we wistfully imagine over popcorn, Red Vines, and a Diet Coke. When WE are fully, completely, and unapologetically ourselves—as real as real can be—that is the very thing, the magic formula, the secret spell that undoes patriarchy’s hold, turns everything rightside up again, and creates the possibility of a happily ever after. No longer “literally impossible,” instead, probable, certain, and sure.
May it be so.
Jul 9, 2023 | Women's Voice & Power, Women's Wisdom
Years ago I wrote a blog post about “intertextuality.” It’s a literary concept that supposes a relationship between texts—how they speak to one another. In some ways, it’s like placing them in conversation together.
Here’s an example using three books that sit side-by-side on my shelf:
- Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte is the powerful story of a woman’s moral and spiritual development in 1st-person prose.
- Humans of New York by Brandon Stanton captures the spirit of a city (and our humanity) through photography.
- Women is a collection of 170 photographs by Annie Leibovitz with an accompanying essay by Susan Sontag.
Picture their discussion! Bronte would talk with Sontag about all that has (and hasn’t) changed in women’s experience and self-perception. Stanton and Leibovitz would share the women they’ve seen through the lens—images that have depicted good and ill, strength and struggle, celebration and pain. Together, the three of them would converse about the larger themes and constructs present in all three of their texts: what we see, what we don’t see, what that says about us. There would be no end to the banter, all the ways in which their perspectives and protagonists and photographs and prose would overlap and intertwine. It would be quite the dinner party!
But intertextuality is hardly limited to the literary sphere. It can be—and is—a lived experience. This kind of dynamic conversation is going on inside of you nearly all the time! A myriad of stories that endlessly interact (even argue). Stories you’ve been told; stories you tell yourself; stories that others are determined to reinforce, even demand; stories you’ve chosen to live into and aspire toward. The voices natter on and on. and because of such, we often struggle to hear what matters most, what heals, what strengthens, what’s distinctly our own, over all the din. But every once in a while, something cuts through the noise and offers us the gift of clarity, respite, and hope.
And that is exactly what I’ve found in Elise Loehnen’s NY Times bestseller, On Our Best Behavior: The Seven Deadly Sins and the Price Women Pay to Be Good. She speaks exactly to the messaging we’ve inherited and imbibed—whether we’ve meant to, or not. And she generously offers us pages of space and time to listen far closer to the self within who knows what is true—both individually and collectively.
Besides all this, I’m enthralled by Loehnen’s work because she reinforces so much of what I’ve been saying all along—how religious precepts are woven into the very fiber of our DNA and our culture at large, especially and distinctly for women, whether we ever intended, let alone wanted such a thing, or not. As I’ve soaked in her research and deeply personal insights, I’ve applied the idea of intertextuality directly and imagined our conversation together. Listen in . . .
We can denounce religion and reject its beliefs at a literal level, but its traditions, these tenets of “good” and “bad,” are woven into the fabric of society. They don’t need our approval or subscription to hold us captive. They operate in us on a subconscious level. [xvii]
“Exactly! My poured-in-concrete position is that every bit of this originates and persists in how these ancient, sacred stories were told from the get go—and continue to be told even still. It’s why I assert that we must reimagine and rewrite these stories, telling them on our own terms, so that we can live our own stories in empowered and sovereign ways—not ‘held captive’ ever again.”
“Admittedly, they’re not easy stories to hear. They carry with them so much pain—both past and present. But I believe it’s their ongoing silencing and/or misinterpretation that hurts us most of all.”
From what I’ve observed, those who can accept the inevitable hits of life—these bursts of loss and pain—and crumble for a time are the ones who become more durable and flexible. Denying this reality fells people like an ax to a tree. [247]
“Yes. Agreed! This is one of the things I’ve been incredibly committed to in my forthcoming book: retelling these women’s stories in ways that do not skirt or downplay their losses, their pain, or the inevitable (and often forced) “hits of life.” Had we been told of these tales and texts without sanitation, the perpetuation of the patriarchy or, worst of all, too-often ignoring the excruciating-ness of their stories altogether, we would be so much more familiar with and accepting of our own. We would, to use your words, be far more durable and flexible. Instead, as you say on page 246, ‘we attempt to keep grief and anguish at bay.’”
Letting go of old structures and ideas and choosing reliance on our sovereignty, on self-possession, is hard. It requires a tremendous amount of faith to rely on this inner knowing, to distill what’s right for us and what’s wrong. Only when we unhook from exterior edicts and tune in to an internal compass can we find the true way. This is the path we each must walk: We must strip off the layers of cultural programming so that we can, at last, see and listen to ourselves, just as we are. From that place of clarity and truth and goodness we can heal, realign, and evolve. [279]
If we can unburden ourselves from an external authority and its prosaic concept of a goodness that enforces suppression and obedience, we can find the goodness of our god-self inside. . . . it requires only faith in our deep inner knowing. [282]
“I could not possibly agree more! And it’s my deepest hope that we can find that goodness and god-self reinforced, over and over again, in the stories of women that have, for far too long, been used to keep us suppressed and obedient instead of sovereign and free. Our deep inner knowing is the wisdom they call forth; it is what they have longed for us to honor in them and what they perpetually inspire and instill in us when we can, at last, hear their voices on our behalf.”
Clearly, I could continue. I’m rarely at a loss where provocative conversation is concerned—whether imagined or real! But I’m going to stop and instead, encourage you to continue the conversation with and for yourself!
What if you imagined and created your own dialogue—your own lived experience of intertextuality?
As you amply highlight your way through the paragraphs and pages of On Our Best Behavior (really: get a new highlighter; you’ll need it), write out your honest and vulnerable responses to her words. What does her writing provoke within you? What questions rise up, unbidden? What memories are summoned? What emotions are felt? And what stories interact (even argue) within you as you read hers?
This kind of dialogue is invaluable, even if sometimes difficult. We need to listen to and interact with the voices that endlessly whisper and shout within. We need our biases and resistance revealed. We need the push toward growth and change. And we need to be reminded of our own deep and trustworthy knowing. So anything that invites all of this and then some? I’m all in! It’s one of the many reasons why I love the idea of intertextuality in and of itself: it compels us beyond reading that is *simply* informative to reading that is transformative. And when found and experienced through an amazing book written by a brilliant woman? Bonus!
In many ways, this is my very process and practice with the women’s stories I rewrite. I have imagined our conversation. I have witnessed their harm, their courage, and their perseverance. I have been both humbled and strengthened by their wisdom. And along the way, I have been reminded, again and again, of the ways in which their stories have been told . . . and how those tellings have influenced the stories I’ve told myself. (Much like the connection Elise Loehnen has made between our subconscious beliefs and behavior and the Seven Deadly Sins.) Over time, as this dialogue has continued, these women have called me home to myself, home to the legacy and lineage that has always been mine, home to the deep and trustworthy knowing that has been there all along. And I am completely certain they offer every bit of this to you, as well.
I hope you’ll read On Our Best Behavior. It’s an important work that speaks change-everything truth (which, as you might know, is my very favorite kind). In her conclusion, she says this:
It’s time that we unyoke from the precepts of our culture’s translation of the Seven Deadly Sins, that we climb out of that sticky web so we can see ourselves for exactly who we are: perfectly human, already divine, on the road back to wholeness. [279]
Mmmmm. May it be so!
Jun 25, 2023 | Hope & Encouragement, Women's Wisdom, Writing
One of my daughters used to get so excited for her birthday and Christmas—counting down the days, rehearsing all the details-specifics-traditions to ensure perfection, and pretty much oozing anticipation and joy. But as memory serves, there were a few early-teen years in which she’d politely say “thank you” for each gift and then as quickly as humanly possible, escape to her room, shut-if-not-slam the door, and sob in bitter disappointment.
I did not always often handle this well. I was frustrated she wasn’t more grateful, happier, elated, even exultant. And I was hurt: so much time and attention paid to making sure everything was special only to have her feel like none of it was enough. I know: I made it about me. Blech. It’s one of the many things I’d go back and redo if I could. I’d acknowledge just how hard it can be to live with the gap between expectations and reality. I’d name just how painful it is to realize something is finished that you’ve looked forward to for so long. I’d give her permission to feel what she feels without the slightest hint of my judgment. *sigh*
It is easy to say that this was simply a child’s perspective. She hadn’t yet discovered that life is unfair. She’d not been battered down by disappointment’s frequent and repetitive presence. OK. Maybe. But here’s the thing:
Now, so many years removed, I wonder whether or not I have the courage to “practice what she preached” in such a tender and poignant expression of her heart. I wonder whether or not I will give myself permission to revel in anticipation and plan on joy and hold firmly to hope. I wonder whether or not I will let myself feel what I feel. I wonder if I will celebrate at all or if, instead, I will protect myself from the massive risk inherent in every bit of this. And I’m wondering all of this on this day, today specifically, because it is worthy of celebration:
I know! Woohoo! Cue the confetti, the champagne, and the celebration! That does seem the appropriate response. But truth-be-told, I’m not feeling nearly that brave.
I’ve been watching the countdown app on my phone inch closer to double-digits for a very long time now; the exact date, 10.3.23, has been staring at me since mid-December, 2021. When I signed the contract with my publisher, nearly two years of forced patience seemed an eternity. As the days, weeks, and months have passed—and especially as the deadlines have loomed—it’s seemed way too close. And in-between time moving like molasses and now being right-around-the-corner, I’ve known every emotion under the sun: excited, panicked, honored, nervous, thrilled, hopeful, anxious, and yes, even exultant.
Today? Exactly 100 days out?
I feel resistant to feeling much of anything.
I know it’s ridiculous. I should be overwhelmingly thrilled at being so close to the finish line of this long-pursued accomplishment: my near-singular intention and aspiration for almost two decades. I’ve given countless hours of my life to these 237 pages that feel more like 2370 and then some. I’ve labored and wept, typed and deleted, hit “submit” and wished I hadn’t, doubted and trusted it would ever happen. I’ve accepted (and sometimes rejected) the recommendations of editors and proofreaders. I’ve wrestled with my perfectionism again and again. And I’ve realized how shockingly hard it is to let go, to place my writing, my work, my book, my very heart, in someone else’s hands—in your hands. It gets worse . . .
Even a small sampling of my inner dialogue (that I’m not at all proud of, but which is no less loud or real) sounds something like this: What if October 3 gets here and I’m bitterly disappointed? What if everyone else is? What if, after all this time, the day just comes and goes, completely anticlimactic? What if the book is not all that good? What if it’s nothing special or meaningful or impactful? What if I’ve built this up to be so much more than it actually is or could ever be? What if it doesn’t sell, doesn’t speak, doesn’t matter? (I know you so want to disagree with me right now, to tell me just the opposite, to encourage me, to remind me of what’s “true.” Believe me, I get it! And thank you.)
Every bit of my exaggerated caution, my reservedness, my insecurities, and even my stated lack of feeling (which obviously isn’t accurate), is the antithesis of my daughter’s then-reality. She dove right into the thick of each celebration, head first, with complete faith that it would be glorious. It never crossed her mind to temper her expectations, to hold back her enthusiasm, to picture the day being “less than” she’d imagined.
All of us were just like her at one time, I suppose: not yet jaded by “Santa” putting fruit in our stockings (fruit?!?), unwrapping gifts that weren’t quite what we asked for (or anywhere close), knowing more times than not when desire and reality didn’t quite match up—relationships that failed, jobs that didn’t remotely resemble what we’d been promised, the myriad of other lessons-learned that life has oh-so-consistently brought our way. These singular experiences, along with their many forms, have the tendency to convert themselves into our most deeply-held beliefs:
- If I don’t expect more in relationships—when I opt for compromise and compliance over truth-telling—I don’t have to feel the disappointment of not really being loved for who I am.
- If I don’t put myself out there at work, I don’t have to risk the disappointment of not getting the promotion, the raise, even much-deserved praise for the above-and-beyond effort I’ve consistently extended.
- If I don’t have the difficult conversation with my kid(s) or significant other or parent(s) or friend or co-worker or boss (or all of the above), I don’t have to deal with the disappointment of things getting even worse.
- If I temper my words and emotions to fit what I’m convinced others can (or cannot) handle and/or want from me, I don’t have to experience the disappointment of being unseen, unheard, and rejected.
- [H/T to my daughter: if you don’t anticipate that your birthday or Christmas will be full of celebration, anticipation, joy, and hope, you don’t ever have to feel the disappointment of “less.” I’m so sorry about this, sweet girl.]
- And let’s be honest: if I don’t acknowledge and honor something as simple and relatively small as today, it’s all part of my bigger plan to not be disappointed if little-to-nothing monumental happens 100 days from now.
Ugh. Every one of these statements is gray and pallid. My shoulders slump as I type; I hear my own heavy sighs. Yes, on some level it makes sense: my reluctance to risk celebration and all that goes along with it, to hold back, to prize my oh-so-amazing ability to successfully manage my emotions. (I’m being sarcastic. It’s not an amazing ability at all.) But a wiser and way-braver part of me screams, Nooooooo!
Defaulting to self-protection over vulnerability, repression over expression, safety over risk, or a lackluster meh over jubilant and unrestrained celebration is not at all representative of how and who I want to be.
I’m loathe to be seen as a silver-lining kind of person. I’m definitely more glass-half-full than empty, but I have little patience for worn out cliches, irritating axioms, or warm-and-fuzzy memes. All this said, it still seems important to name (and yes, even celebrate) that the risk and even experience of disappointment is actually what enables joy to be so much more deeply felt. The very possibility of loss is what invites our appreciation, devotion, presence, and love. Our previous heartbreaks are what make a new (and healthier) relationship feel not only amazing, but miraculous; what makes our sense of self feel whole, intact, and strong. Our former mind-numbing work is what validates our now-felt energy and excitement for how we spend our days. And our fear of pain, when acknowledged and maybe even overcome (at least in moments), is what makes our bliss, well . . . bliss!
Here’s what’s true: Our lives are not a binary; they do not go one way or the other— black or white, up or down, good or bad. We don’t celebrate or avoid the mere mention of it. We don’t experience disappointment or joy, loss or love, heartbreak or healing, soul-sucking work or satisfaction, pain or bliss. We know and feel all of it, all the time.
You don’t have to take my word for it.
“. . . to believe in something with your whole heart, to celebrate a fleeting moment in time, to fully engage in a life that doesn’t come with guarantees – these are risks that involve vulnerability and often pain. But, I’m learning that recognizing and leaning into the discomfort of vulnerability teaches us how to live with joy, gratitude and grace.”
~ Brené Brown
Full engagement and no guarantees. Risks, vulnerability and pain. Discomfort and joy, gratitude, and grace.
Deep breath.
I wonder how all of this lands for you, what memories and stories come to mind, what emotions are stirred. I wonder if your inner dialogue sounds even remotely like mine. I wonder about the places in which you have held back—and do still. I wonder about how much joy you’ve missed out on when compared to how much you’ve deserved, especially given all that you’ve accomplished, survived, endured, finished, left behind, and risked.
And I wonder if you’ll join me (whether figuratively or literally) in tossing confetti and popping champagne. Yes, as it relates to today and 100 days from publication, but far more—and far more importantly—as it relates to you and me both living bravely, maintaining an unswerving commitment to celebration, reveling in anticipation, planning on joy, and holding firmly to hope no matter how ridiculous or crazy it might seem. Maybe especially then!
May it be so.
May 18, 2023 | Sovereignty, Women's Voice & Power, Women's Wisdom
In the midst of life’s ups and down, I am grateful for that which is steady, familiar, and comfortable.
I haven’t always seen things this way.
Too often, I’ve resisted the “ordinariness” of my life. I’ve fallen prey to the myth that I should be better and more. I’ve been exhausted by endlessly waiting for something, anything, everything to change. I’ve searched and searched outside myself for a fix, for respite, for “salvation,” so to speak.
I still do sometimes. Thankfully, less and less.
These days, “ordinary” feels like respite. Better and more feel like lies (because they are). I rarely wait or hope or pine for change. And bit by bit I am learning to look within and somewhat-miraculously discover everything I need.
Even this is comforting: these slow-but-sure shifts.
“Comfort is so much more than bubble baths and chocolate. Not that both aren’t fabulous, but the popular conception of comfort is often about numbing out or escaping, not about truly finding a way to face into things honestly and authentically.” ~ Jen Louden
Amen.
True, deep comfort is found when we face things honestly and authentically, when we ARE our honest and authentic selves. The opposite is also true: when we are NOT our honest and authentic selves, (deep) comfort is impossible to find.
I came across a different expression of this truth in a book I read this past week (and highly recommend): Wintering: The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times by Katherine May.
She says, “We ‘want’ in the archaic sense of the word, as if we are lacking something and need to absorb it in order to be whole again. These wants are often astonishingly inaccurate: drugs and alcohol, which poison instead of reintegrate; relationships with people who do not make us feel safe or loved; objects that we do not need, cannot afford, which hang around our necks like albatrosses of debt long after the yearning for them has passed. Underneath this chaos and clutter lies a longing for more elemental things—love, beauty, comfort . . . “
“Chaos and clutter” come when we look outside ourselves for wholeness; when we forget that WE are what we need. Said another way: WE are the font from which deep comfort flows.
Quite frankly, even knowing what I know now, it is still a struggle to trust all that dwells within me, to receive the deep comfort that is and always has been mine. I want nothing more. And I am certain that every bit of this—this learning to turn within—is a process, a journey, a heroine’s quest, an endless discovery, the gift of life itself.
“A woman discovers the way home to herself in a quiet descent into the richness of her own life. In the descent, she reverses the tendency to look outside of herself for salvation. In the “deep places,” she reunites with her essential self and reclaims her natural resources.” ~ Patricia Lynn Reilly
THIS is comfort, yes?
A woman who knows to live in ways that are not dependent on external circumstances, other people, better and more, success or not.
A woman who knows to dive deep below the surface to find respite and calm; to be and remain whole.
A woman who knows she can quiet the clamor and din, discern among pressures and demands, by listening to her heart.
A woman who knows that being her honest and authentic self is her birthright – whether or not that creates dis-comfort for others.
A woman who knows joy is to be found in the ordinary, in the rhythms and routines that provide both structure and support.
A woman who knows she has more to express, more to reveal, more to offer, more to give; who nurtures all that she carries within; who cannot help but birth ever more of her true-and-beautiful self into the world.
We’re invited to all of this and then some. We’re invited home . . . to ourselves . . . at last. Comfort, to be sure.
May it be so.
May 11, 2023 | Sovereignty, Women's Voice & Power, Women's Wisdom
“It’s a relief to speak the truth. I don’t have to pretend.” ~ Karen Maezen Miller
My thoughts about truth-telling are supported by two bookends. One the one side is my deep and inviolate belief that you already know your truth. It’s that know-that-you-know-that-you-know voice within that cannot and will not be silenced; it never leaves you. On the other side is the acknowledgement that your truth-telling often comes with risk, cost, and consequence – which is the very reason you, me, most women, often forego it, tone it down, keep ourselves safe, all of the above.
What’s missing though, is what Karen Maezen Miller (above) offers in naming truth-telling as relief.
Without rest as promised-reward, truth-telling often remains too daunting and not worth either the effort or the exhaustion. Pretending then, becomes our default.
About pretending.
We are conditioned to pretend from a very early age. We learn how to be what others expect, what others need, what others demand. And confusingly, our ability to do and be exactly this, is what earns us affirmation, praise, and belonging. (No wonder we’re exhausted.)
“In the fullness of time, we become dizzy from swirling; our lives ache from being twisted out of shape; and our spirits become depleted from servicing others with our energy and attention.” ~ Patricia Lynn Reilly, A Deeper Wisdom: The 12 Steps from a Woman’s Perspective
To tell the truth, to NOT pretend, feels far more like labor than rest, far more like risk than reward because pretending is what we’re used to, what we know best, what we become best at. But to keep pretending, even though potentially “easier” (deceivingly so), chips away at our true self, our wholeness, our groundedness, our very experience of who we are as a woman in this world.
In thinking a lot about this in the past few days, I decided to compile a cursory inventory of my own pretending:
- I learned early that being smart, witty, and a “thinker” would get me the most attention from my dad. I wasn’t pretending to be smart, witty, and a thinker but I DID know, somewhere within, that it was required to feel loved. Being who he wanted and needed me to be allowed me to feel seen, heard, and valued.
- As a teenager and through my 20s, I pretended in ways designed to summon male approval. It didn’t work a lot of the time, but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t committed to trying. If I pretended to be what they wanted, surely I would be wanted.
- During five years of infertility, I pretended to trust in God’s will by (trying to) believe in some higher plan for my life. The truth—what I really felt—was too dark, too hopeless, too devoid of the faith I had learned to display, no matter what.
- During way too much of my marriage, I pretended that I was OK with what was happening around and within me. The truth would be too disruptive, misunderstood, the beginning of the end. Pretending felt like self-preservation, relationship-preservation.
- In a later relationship, post-divorce, I pretended to be fine with his distance, his cutting sarcasm, his utter disappearance emotionally. Pretending meant I didn’t have to be alone.
- In more than one corporate position, I pretended that feeling like I was the crazy one was normal; that it was “just the way things are” as a woman in leadership. Pretending meant that I could stay, that I had a seat at the table, that I belonged.
Now I know better.
- The truth is that I am worthy of being seen, heard, and valued because of who I am – not because of what I do or how I act, even how smart I might sound.
- The truth is that I am worthy of being wanted, period.
- The truth is that the heartache of infertility was hardly a divestiture of my faith, but a fierce (and faithful) clinging to any faith at all.
- The truth is that my marriage was pretend as long as I was pretending; what I was working so hard to preserve was not honest or real.
- The truth is that being in relationship with someone who couldn’t stay, couldn’t express emotion, and wouldn’t honor me is not worth being in at all.
- The truth is that I am not the crazy one; my seat at the table is deserved – even if not given or allowed.
The truth is that typing every one of the sentences above IS a relief, even now. Though some were a long time in coming, each were a relief then, as well.
“It is a relief to speak the truth. I don’t have to pretend.”
Where have you felt the exhaustion of being someone other than yourself? What stories come to mind? What “inventory of pretending” might you compile? What blessed relief might you know if you did speak the truth, your truth?
These are not easy questions. Answering them with intentional choice and bold action IS risky, costly, and full of consequence. But so is pretending.
You deserve to be yourself. You deserve to experience every moment of every day fully and completely yourself no matter what. You deserve to speak your truth. You deserve to never pretend at all. You deserve to know that who you are is beautiful, worthy, and wise no matter what. And that IS a relief.
Apr 20, 2023 | Sovereignty, Women's Voice & Power, Women's Wisdom
The desire, temptation, and lure to live an extraordinary life is strong; to figure out our “one thing;” to do, create, be, achieve, rise up, astonish, accomplish, shine.
When we consider this within the expanse of time, it is a relatively new phenomenon. For generations, life was shaped by survival and perseverance, seasons and hours, shelter and sustenance, tribe and family. Ordinary life took precedence. And somehow, in the midst of such, extraordinary lives were lived.
A few examples from the stories I reimagine and retell?
- Hagar: a slave who was forced to bear the child of the man who owned her, she was then banished to the desert with her young son, Ishmael. He became the patriarch of Islam.
- The Midwives: two Egyptian women who birthed the babies of Israelite women, they were ordered by the Pharaoh to kill all newborn boys. They did no such thing. One child spared was Moses who freed the Israelite people from slavery.
- Mary: an engaged girl trying to make sense of an unexpected pregnancy became the mother of Jesus.
How about these?
Andrée de Jongh saved hundreds of Allied airmen escaping from the Nazis, and Freddie and Truus Oversteegen spent their teenage years luring Nazis to their death by seducing them. Frances Perkins was the first woman to serve on the US Cabinet. Aung San Suu Kyi spent fifteen years on house arrest in the name of non-violence and democracy. Roberta “Bobbi” Gibb ran in the Boston Marathon after being rejected because she was a woman. Amani Al-Khatahtbeh started a pioneering publication by and for Muslim women. Rosalind Franklin discovered the double helix structure of DNA. Sybil Ludington rode twice as far as Paul Revere to warn about the British. Mary McLeod Bethune served on FDR’s “Black Cabinet” working as an activist for education and civil rights. Lee Miller spent years photographing all the heroic women of World War II. Gertrude Bell was a legendary explorer who helped establish modern day Iraq. [Source]
In her book Hidden Figures, Margot Lee Shetterly tells the true story of three black female mathematicians at NASA whose calculations helped fuel some of America’s greatest achievements in space. In an interview, she said:
History is the sum total of what all of us do on a daily basis. We think of capital “H” history as being these huge figures—George Washington, Alexander Hamilton, and Martin Luther King. Even so, you go to bed at night, you wake up the next morning, and then yesterday is history. These small actions in some ways are more important or certainly as important as the individual actions by these towering figures.
Generations of women have gone to bed at night and woken up the next morning. They have birthed life into the world in every form. They have sustained and saved life in infinite ways. They have survived life itself. Each of these are “certainly as important as the individual actions by towering figures.”
Ordinary women cannot help but live extraordinary lives.
I’m certain you have stories of your own:
- When you say no to anything that compromises you or others.
- When you choose courage over compliance.
- When you risk everything on behalf of what you know to be right and true.
- When you refuse to let your boundaries be breached yet again.
- When you love who you love—regardless of laws or opinions.
- When you do the hard and ongoing work of acknowledging your own internalized racism.
- When you demonstrate, lobby, and vote on behalf of women’s right to their own bodies, their very choices.
- When you speak up in a meeting at work even though doing so goes against the grain.
- When you refuse to internalize patriarchal messages that intentionally have you doubting whether or not you are enough.
- When you do not believe the overculture that says you only matter when you are young and beautiful (and that we must endlessly strive toward and purchase such).
- When you stand humbly alongside other women who have known harm, violence, bigotry, and bias that few of us can begin to imagine.
- When you refuse relationships that require your silence or perpetuate your shame.
It is in living an ordinary life that YOU are extraordinary.
Not because you try. But because you survive and persevere and “be” – day-in, day-out. Good and bad. Easy and hard. Joyful and excruciating. Wins and losses. Gifts and hassles. People and places. Normal, everyday, ordinary.
Nothing more. And certainly nothing less.
If, in the mix of all that you write a book, or stand on a stage, or build a successful business, or raise a family, or get a promotion, or take a demotion, or make your mortgage payments, or crochet an afghan, or nurture a garden, or (fill in the blank), it will be because you have – in obvious and ordinary ways – taken the next step, done the next thing, walked through the next door, lived through the next day. NOT because you have pushed and prodded and persuaded yourself to be more amazing and incredible than you already are.
You being you is extraordinary.
Last week, in one of Jena Schwartz’s beautiful posts, she included this quote from Anna Quindlen:
“The thing that is really hard, and really amazing, is giving up on being perfect and beginning the work of becoming yourself.”
That same wisdom could be stated this way, as well: The thing that is really hard, and really amazing, is giving up on being extraordinary and *just* being you. Because, after all, you being you is extraordinary!
May it be so.
