I’ve worn armor in this lifetime. Armor in the form of soccer shin guards, of uniforms, of heavy eyeliner, of lingerie, of studded belts and lofty titles.
My body has created armor for me. Armor in the form of weight around my waist, of invisibility, of a perpetually grin. My nervous system fortified me in hypervigilance, in adrenaline filled strength.
Every piece of this armor has proven absolutely necessary. For decades I celebrated my tenacity and endurance, my ability to keep going despite impossible odds or devastating pain. And when my journey turned to healing, when the battle gave way to times of peace, I began the most challenging quest of them all: allowing the armor to fall.
A dear client came to me almost exactly a year ago, peering at me through new cracks in her own armor. She described a life with the objects of contentment, a reliable partner, a comfortable home. She tearfully described how something was wrong with her, something deep and ugly, keeping her from what should be a happy life. We traveled to her past and sought the deeper rhythm of her own voice within and she startled slightly as those cracks began to grow.
Over the course of the year this woman sought her true self with tenacity. She sought support and resources, she called on the armor she had built and used it to weather the storm within. A storm long raging, though long ignored. She entered the battle within well fortified, and then to the greatest shock, she sat down in softness. As the wind blew and thunder roared she sat and allowed the tears long held to fall. And as I watched in tender admiration, she piece by very piece removed the armor she carried. I watched her learn to say no, without guilt. I watched her release what didn’t align. I watched her arrive in sisterhood without a mask and offer her truth. And I watched her accept the judgment free support and love, and finally attest that she deserved it.
I watched her reclaim her magic.
In a year of battles I watched her weather, she met sadness, pain, dysregulation with softness. And then suddenly, she looked up. Leaving her armor among the fallen branches she held waiting hands and as the storm eased, she rose.
Her life transformed, she giggled a very cute, “but how?” Unable to find the specific moment, she feared it a lucky break and that soon she may slide back into what had been the storm. Together we determined the impossibility of such a slide. While the mountain still surely existed, full of the peaks and valleys repeating from the past far into the future, we determined her gear was forever altered. Where in the past, she slid down the muddy rocks in socks, she now observed hefty boots to grip her feet on the path she climbed. The threat of sliding back to where she began, forever an impossibility.
She now reeks of joy. And every day, she reminds me of what is possible. As I witnessed her claim her life, a voice within me watched in wonder with a soft, “look what we’re allowed to do”.
She has been, and continues to be, brave.
When I was small, we heard on the news that a cougar had been spotted near our neighborhood. We lived in a suburban neighborhood near a lush and magical forest, yet, we’d never heard of such a visitor.
One night after dinner as I played with my plethora of cousins who were always nearby, my mother came to the doorway to request we go in the backyard to gather our toys. I looked at her in dreadful disbelief, we couldn’t possibly go out there, I argued, the cougar would certainly attack. With an eye roll she ushered us out the door. The group of us children all held hands and slowly ventured into the warm darkness. We were in the center of the large yard when a sound, a roar, came from the trees to the side of the house. With screams we ran towards the house, flying faster than we’d ever run before, desperate to survive the cougar attack. And as I felt my feet touch the safe bricks of the patio, I scanned the group for my brother, Connor, the smallest of us all. In disbelief I looked back the way we had come to see Connor, in his denim onesie, standing frozen in the center of the yard, alone. His small hands in the air, he screamed.
In my bravest moment of this life, I turned back and ran towards him. With every step, certain it would be my last, I focused on Connor’s small form and listened carefully for the pounding of large paws on the grass. I grabbed him and began the now-seeming exponential distance back to the house. As I ran with him in my arms I scanned the trees, ready to fight the large cat to give him time to survive.
When we arrived back in the living room, breathlessly telling the adults of our terror, I didn’t notice my uncle, equally breathless and sweaty, hiding a grin behind his hand.
Bravery does not correlate to the actual danger before us. Bravery is not the absence of fear.
When a healing journey begins, we hear so much about self care and softness. We have an expectation that with enough meditation and calm, our armor will naturally fall and peace will ensue. In reality, acknowledging and accepting the hard won battles of the past gives space to release that armor with gratitude. But to do so, takes the utmost bravery.
And so, whenever a woman so much as joins me for a Clarity Call, I can’t help but think:
“She brave”
I know you’ve been brave. If you’re ready to let that armor fall and accept a hand for support, send me a note. I’m waiting for you.
Be the first to comment