Let’s talk a little bit about badassery. Did I just make that word up? Maybe. Anyway, in my experience badassery is a very real thing. It’s what I call the situation where a person (and since I write about my own experiences we all know who this person is… ME) appears to have it all together. They don’t usually get outwardly spun up about situations. They seem to have everything under control. When things don’t go their way they take a deep breath, release, and move on. Therefore, others think they basically have no feelings. Sound familiar? If so, you’re not alone.

After a recent heart to heart with someone close to me, the person said they’d always assumed major disappointments in my life didn’t bother me because my outward response wasn’t one they’d associate with disappointment, upset, frustration, or even anger. This was beyond perplexing to me. How could this person, who I thought knew me pretty well, basically think I have no feelings?

So, internal reflection began, as well as a discussion with my therapist (dear god, we all need a therapist in this life!) and I soon realized that while this inaccurate assessment of me and my emotions was hurtful and unfair, it was also not particular to me. In this life people want us to behave in a way that feels comfortable to them. So, each of us picks up a dialogue of how life should look, what emotions are safe to share, which ones should be hidden away, only to be released in the privacy of our home.. or perhaps alone on the bathroom floor. For instance, in my home I got the message I had to be tough. Nothing direct per say. I was simply the oldest of four children, often left to fend for myself or take care of my younger siblings. While my friends were at the pool I was home.. babysitting, cooking, cleaning. When I cried, even as a young child, I was often told to “dry it up or I’d be given something to cry about.” Emotions were not given a safe place to land and I had a lot of them (repressed childhood sexual abuse has a way of doing that to a person). So, I learned early on to tuck my feelings away in my back pocket and to, under no circumstances, let them out unless I was all alone.

My parents weren’t monsters. Let me get that out of the way before that vision gets stuck in your head. They were simply doing what they knew. They loved me. They did their best. They had no idea the things I was pushing down and hiding away. That said, my home was definitely not a container in which to learn the intricacies of safe emotional expression; being supported through tantrums, tears, and outbursts is an important part of a child’s development and that was something we simply didn’t do. So, as all of my experiences collided and subsequent meaning-making commenced, I put together a roadmap of how life would be. I formed opinions of what I thought the world would expect from me and how I could most successfully navigate my time here on earth: be tough, fend for myself, trust no one.

Let that soak in for a moment. I believed I was in this all alone.. and often times still do (have I said thank god for therapy?). With that world view, it’s extremely difficult to accept help or show emotion. It takes an immense amount of energy to be vulnerable or believe in the goodness of another. Sure, I believe people are innately good, but I’m talking about something else here.. the belief that the other will be kind and understanding toward me, has the ability or desire to truly see me, will support me or care, giving a damn about the things that matter to me. My belief - nobody wants to hear that; nobody cares that much. So, if nobody cares and I’m in it alone I might as well suck it up and figure shit out. I’m good at it.

Honestly it’s been a strategy that has served me many times over. I found great success living that life, Those tenants made me a successful business woman, got me through divorce, and helped me navigate being a single mom, but that’s where it got tricky. Being a single mom meant I had to depend on others, at least a bit. I had to trust that others wanted to help me (or would at least do a good job if I paid them). It wasn’t easy, but I could white knuckle it through that because I was tough and doing what I had to do to fend for myself (and my son). However, when I became extremely ill several years ago, I left my job and that started a cascade of events that has led me to this moment, writing this post, today.

See, when I left my job I thought I would get better in the health arena (the stress of my environment had to be adding to my inability to get well) and either find work elsewhere or commence the life coaching career of my dreams. It was around that time that I also (very slowly) entered into a committed relationship. However, things did not go as I had planned. My health became an ongoing rollercoaster - improving for a bit, then nose-diving, rinse, repeat. I was stubborn, thinking I could control the situation. After all, I had controlled most everything in my life up to this point.. and very successfully I might add. But, things didn’t work out that way. Again, leading me to write this post on this day, years later.

Through all the disappointments and life changes... The difficulties of lost jobs, hopes, and dreams. The good days and bad... I have appeared strong. I have put on a brave face. I have kept things under control.. kept my shit together. I have not had outbursts and tantrums. I have not pulled everything off of my shelves and smashed them on the ground (as I have imagined myself doing on more than one occasion). I haven’t beaten the shit out of anybody or gotten shit-faced drunk. I haven’t banged on the walls and floors, screaming WHY MOTHER FUCKER?!?!?!?! But don’t let my cool, calm demeanor fool you. I have wanted to. I have wanted to sob for hours on end and go to sleep for days. I have wanted to scream at somebody, anybody, making them responsible for the shit show. I have wanted to be so angry at god or the universe or who/whatever for “making me sick,” allowing me to be sexually abused, hurting me, taking everything I had away. I have wanted to rip somebody a new one. Only there’s nobody to blame. My abuser is dead. My doctors are supportive. My family loves me. So who am I supposed to yell at? Who am I supposed to take it out on? No one.

So, I do what I know to do. I go to my yoga mat. I sit on my meditation pillow. I apply my oils. I practice mantras. I eat healthy foods. I see my therapist. I go to the psychologist. I take my medicine. I walk. I run. I play. I go through my day. I engage in what I can each day, being grateful for the days I’m out of bed, remembering when that wasn’t possible, taking in the warmth and joy of my son’s smile, hoping to receive the love my partner is extending (receiving love isn’t always easy). But don’t be fooled. I still feel. I struggle. I cry. I hope. I dream. I disappoint. Yes, I am a badass. I have come through a lot. I have fight. I am also human. Both are true. Perhaps contradictions, and still, all of it, so very true.

These days I have something to cry about. I guess my dad’s words have come true. But there’s no reason. No room. It won’t change anything. So, I release the tears as they come, working on crying more in front of those I love. Allowing them the opportunity to embrace me and re-write the story of my childhood. Forward. One step at a time. One foot in front of the other. “That’s the way” I can hear my Nana’s say.

Cry, but not too hard. Be sad, but not too long.