Rising up when it all falls apart – the difference between failing and being a failure

This week I will hand back the keys to the practice where I’ve been offering reiki treatments. Long-time readers of my blog may remember that 12 months ago, I took a massive leap of faith and committed to a one-year lease on a room at a health and wellbeing practice here in Sydney. I planned to offer reiki treatments two days a week (read that blog post here), and hoped that I could grow a client base and eventually make this, combined with my angel card reading service, a career alternative. It was a big financial risk… and it has not, unfortunately, paid off. The very worst result that could have happened – the one I was most afraid of – has indeed happened. And I’m OK with that. Now.

For a long time I was not OK. In February it became apparent that my business was not working. That, on top of a (temporary but prolonged) drought in my primary source of income, plunged me into a state of despair... not to mention debt.

When I realised there was nothing I could do but watch money flow down the drain until my commercial lease ran out, the sense of disappointment was immense. I had lovingly stacked my hopes and dreams, along with significant sums of money, into this business, and it had not worked. I had wholeheartedly trusted that having faith was enough to make my dreams come true... and I was wrong. I couldn’t not see this failure as an indictment on my skills and my worth. The failure of my business felt like proof that I was a failure as a person. My inner bully’s cries of “I knew you’d fuck it up!” were deafening.

Business leaders around the world consistently describe the experience of losing everything as integral to shaping their success. JK Rowling famously had her Harry Potter manuscripts rejected 12 times. “I was the biggest failure I knew,” she said. When Bloomsbury Publishing took a punt and printed her first three books, it warned her not to quit her day job. As we all know, Joanne went on to achieve stratospheric levels of success. Yet on 12 previous occasions, she had failed. It was not her moment to shine… until it was. The Universe has a schedule all its own.

Failure is a blistering, heavy word. The most unhelpful thing anyone said to me when I was coming to realise things were not turning out as I’d hoped was: “Just think positive – it’ll all work out.” Please, never say this to someone going through a significant challenge. It implies they’re not trying hard enough, that a lack of faith is the cause of their struggle and that getting what they want is a mere case of wishing for it (a wildly inaccurate interpretation of the law of attraction). So, so unhelpful.

What *was* helpful for me as I licked my wounds was reframing the situation. There’s a difference between failing and being a failure. The former means I haven’t had success yet; the latter indicates I am flawed on a personal level. Once I understood the distinction between the two – and stopped beating myself up – I found my way to a space of acceptance. Instead of seeing myself as incompetent I was (eventually) able to depersonalise the experience, and recognise failure as a necessary step in my development. Brene Brown says: “Failure is an imperfect word because the minute you learn from it, it ceases to be a failure.” 

Although the Universe didn’t meet me halfway on this business plan, it did issue me with an invitation to grow. Learn from this, and you’ll become more resilient. Learn from this, and you’ll navigate future obstacles better. Learn from this, and new doors will open up to you, opportunities better than you could have scripted. The secret of life, as Paulo Coelho expressed so exquisitely in The Alchemist, is to fall down seven times and get up eight.

There are all sorts of reasons why my reiki practice likely didn’t fire. It could have been the wrong area. It could have been (and most likely was) simply the wrong timing. It was 100 per cent not lack of skills nor lack of effort on my part. I know that I could not have put anything more into that business. I have no regrets… now.

So when I take my certificates off the wall and push my business cards through the shredder, I will remember the difference between failing and being a failure. I will remind myself that I am not defined or diminished by this disappointment. And as I let go of my expectations I will hold space for shiny new opportunities. 

Your move, Universe.

Why criticism stings so badly, and why we can't afford to hide from it

*Trigger warning: contains bullying themes*

What is the worst thing someone has ever said to you, or about you? The thing that stung so badly you can feel yourself plunging into a barbed-wire pit at the memory?

Maybe you had to think about it. Maybe a dossier of vitriolic words sprung into your mind immediately. Maybe you simply don’t care what people think of you (if you fall into this category, I’m assuming you’re either a cat or Lena Dunham).

I’ve written a lot about my difficulty in accepting compliments and praise, but it wasn’t until last week at a talk by prominent vulnerability researcher and TED Talk star Brené Brown that I started thinking about the ways criticism, and the fear of it, have shaped my choices and behaviours.

Brené, who was in Sydney to open The School Of Life, described the eye-wateringly savage comments made about her 2010 TED Talk (which, incidentally, remains one of the top five talks of all time). These included nasty remarks about her appearance and her weight, and expressions of “pity” for her husband and children. Because if you really want to wound a woman, and you are protected by the anonymity of the world wide web, you go straight for the jugular – her looks (which is how society measures her value) and her worthiness to be loved by others (which is how she measures her value).

For me, the most devastating criticisms were made in my adolescence. Unlike the other kids at my small religious school, I was not from a rich family. I did not wear surf labels, I wore clothes handed down from my older cousins. My dad was in the building trade, not a lawyer or accountant. I had zero interest in watching, or participating in, sport (this was a cardinal sin in provincial New Zealand). I was a sharp, eager learner, and I knew big words that other kids did not. In essence, this is the (unrequested) feedback I got: you’re different, you don’t belong, no one wants to be your friend, and, most stingingly, no one will ever marry you. These junior emotional assassins managed to cut through to the core desires of me and every human being: to be loved and to belong.

While I was reflecting upon this ugly chapter of my life, I came undone under the weight of one very heavy memory. I remember going to a school disco and being so ridiculed for what I was wearing that I ran into the cloakroom, climbed to the top of the locker cube and spent the entire night lying against the wall so no one could see me, counting down the hours until Dad arrived in his ute to pick me up. This happened more than 25 years ago, but in many ways I am still that little girl in the pink corduroy skirt making herself as small as possible. I am still searching for acceptance. I am forever mourning for the cool, popular, enviable person I will never be. 

That’s the thing about the most hurtful criticisms, the ones we never forget – they maim us because they appear to confirm a belief we secretly held about ourselves: that we are not good enough. Yes, bullying is an extreme example, but the intensity of the criticism is not the point. When you are criticised, either for what you’ve done or for who you are, it will make you want to retreat and protect yourself. It will make you sorry you tried to do that brave thing, and highly unlikely to do so ever again. It will make you want to hurt other people. It will make you paint yourself as flawed, inadequate and unworthy; you will be wrong on all three counts.

Bestselling author Liz Gilbert does not read reviews, an experience she describes as biting into a sandwich of broken glass. Brené carries around a one inch by one inch piece of paper on which she’s listed the names of the few people whose opinions she cares about. If your name is not on the list, she will disregard your feedback. Because if you are sitting in the cheap seats passing judgement on others instead of standing up, baring your soul, living a life you are proud of and risking getting your arse kicked, Brené has no time for your opinion. 

Brené absolutely 100 per cent cannot let fear of criticism stop her from making herself vulnerable in her work, her relationships and her life choices. Because she knows from her research that being vulnerable is how we grow and connect. Vulnerability, she says, is showing up and being seen when you don’t know what the outcome will be. Courage is risking people judging you. It is unwise to stop caring what people think of you, she notes – because then you stop connecting. Human beings are wired for connection – and (in my opinion) those connections are what gives life meaning. For many years I held back from connecting with people because I was not willing to risk being truly seen. I was safe, but one-dimensional. One of the ways I have made myself vulnerable is by being open about my ability to communicate with angels, and risking being labelled a weirdo.

If we want to live full, satisfying, meaningful lives and experience deep relationships, we must risk criticism, judgement and negative feedback. We must dare to stand out even though we may be mowed down by the people who are playing safe. If we do not, we will never know all that we can be and all that we are capable of.

As one of my favourite quotes (the one on my Facebook page cover picture) declares: “Our tragedy isn’t in the failing, it’s in the not trying. We are here to risk our hearts.”

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When it comes to love and kindness, the little things are really the big things

If I asked you to name your most meaningful experiences from the past 12 months, you would, I suspect, start filing through your brain for extraordinary events. You would tell me about the weddings you attended, the holidays you took, the babies you met for the first time and the promotions or professional awards you scored. You would not, I suspect, mention the hug you gave a workmate that she really needed but could not find the words to ask for, the time you got the bus driver wait for someone who was running behind, the money you donated to a charity or the delighted smile you received from your grandma when you popped over for a cup of tea.

We tend to think that the milestones and the firsts are the most meaningful moments in our lives, so we cherish those memories (and for good reason). We tend to disregard the brief moments of connection that don’t change our lives irrevocably, but carry layers of meaning we don’t perceive right away. I believe – and I’ve said this many times – that the little things are really the big things.

There used to be a forwarded email doing the rounds (remember the days when we used to forward emails instead of retweeting or sharing on Facebook?!) by an anonymous woman who described how her boyfriend always waved to strangers when he’s driving, even if they look at him like he’s a weirdo. When she asked him why he did this, he told her that he’d read stories by people who had attempted suicide; some had said that if they’d been acknowledged by someone else they wouldn’t have wanted to end their lives. For that reason, he was committed to extending warmth to everyone he saw, to make sure no one felt invisible or insignificant. This is a very small act of kindness, but a very powerful one.

Of course we should celebrate the big stuff, but I wish we could do a better job at recognising the successes that really reflect our job in this lifetime – the times we give love to others, and received it with gratitude. One of the best things that happened to me last week was an out-of-the-blue phone call from a friend in the US who knew I’d been going through a rough time, so wanted to check how I was going. I doubt that was a big deal for her, but to me it meant the world.

Brené Brown writes: “Joy comes to us in ordinary moments. We risk missing out when we get too busy chasing down the extraordinary.” Sometimes in those ordinary moments, we’re a conduit to other people’s joy – and we may not even realise it. To me, that is the very definition of extraordinary.

I hope you create and experience lots of little wins this week. 

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How to let go of pain: pick up a pen and paper

I’ve long been an advocate for writing as a means of healing. Putting pen to paper, or fingertips to keyboard, has been the best weapon in my arsenal for plumbing the depths of my emotions and moving past hurts – particularly when an issue involves another person.

The other day I came across some academic endorsement of the catharsis I have experienced via the written word (yay science!).

In her book Rising Strong, vulnerability expert Brene Brown references research from James Pennebaker at the University of Texas. James says: “Emotional upheavals touch every part of our lives. You don’t just lose a job, you don’t just get divorced. These things affect all aspects of who we are – our financial situation, our relationships with others, our views of ourselves, our issues of life and death. Writing helps us focus and organise the experience.”

Pennebaker’s study, published in the Journal of Consulting and Clinical Psychology, found that participants who wrote about traumatic experiences for four consecutive days reported greater happiness three months later, visited the doctor less than usual during the following six weeks and seemed to have a healthier immune system compared with the control group who wrote about superficial topics.

Essentially, he says, translating painful and confusing experiences into words helps us get to grips with what happened, which helps us navigate our way through. We become active creators in our own life stories rather than passive bystanders.

I’ve never tried the four-day exercise that Pennebaker advocates, but I did use writing as therapy recently when a friend did something really shitty to me that left me reeling. My first instinct was to contact him and force him to explain his actions, but my wounded pride would not let me. I’m glad I hesitated, because communicating with him before I had got my thoughts in order would mean I would have likely launched some personal attacks that I would regret forevermore (and looked like a dick in the process).

What I did instead was write him a letter (using pen and paper, so I’m less likely to edit it as I go) being very specific about why I was upset. I wrote two pages, and when I read it back, I could see a very clear pattern. My tone had changed from being angry and accusatory to being self-reflective. Which is a helpful progression. I’d expressed my pain without having to confront him, and had managed to make sense of it to the point where I recognised how I had contributed to the situation by having unrealistic expectations of his behaviour. I was still unhappy about the event but I was no longer furious at him. Anger, after all, is a secondary emotion, masking a deeper fear – if we want to move past what happened, we need to find out the issue underlying the anger. I did not send the letter; I did not need to.

When you feel overwhelmed by emotions sometimes you just don’t want to do the things you know will help. You feel justified being angry, so you don’t *want* to move past it. But I know from experience that if I can funnel my emotions onto a piece of paper, I will process the experience in a much more helpful way. And when the lesson has been learned, the Universe won’t send me that situation again.

This entire blog is testament to the power of the written word to ease the pain of the human heart, and build a bridge to peace. Almost every post I have written has reshaped my emotional landscape and empowered me to be proactive in working through the challenges I face.

If there’s something you’re struggling with right now, I’d recommend you try writing about it. Don’t worry about being clever or lyrical or creative, just be honest about how you feel. It might not resolve your pain but I bet it will give you some clarity to move forward. 

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Does social media make us narcissists? No, but it can reveal a lot about how we view ourselves

When it comes to narcissism, there is perhaps no more endearing example in the world than Kanye West. Pop culture’s king of self-aggrandisement once declared that he wished to describe his profession as ‘creative genius’ on immigration arrival forms – but he didn’t know how to spell the word ‘genius’ (lol). 

Narcissism is something I’ve been thinking about lately because I’ve seen a few columns fretting that our obsession with selfies and documenting the minutiae of our lives online is creating a generation of narcissists. I don’t agree. 

Firstly, a definition – because narcissism is not, despite popular belief, the same as arrogance or just plain bad behaviour. During a discussion at the recent Sydney Writer’s Festival, social commentator Anne Manne (author of Life of I: The New Culture of Narcissism) offered these defining characteristics (among others): having a sense of superiority; a sense of entitlement; a feeling that you’re entitled to exploit others; and a desperate desire to gain attention to prove you are really significant – which is where social media use really comes under the microscope.

Brene Brown, leading researcher in the field of vulnerability, describes narcissism as “a shame-based fear of being ordinary”. At its core, she writes, narcissism is driven by a fear of not being enough.

I’m not sure what this says about the industry I’m in, but I’ve worked with more than a few people who fit into the narcissism category. And I’ve certainly seen people – from differing age groups – use social media as a platform for relentless self-promotion, which can be uncomfortable for me to observe. But even though many commentators have identified a correlation between social media and narcissism, I don’t think that means social media *breeds* narcissism, as such.

My opinion is that although there’s a good argument for all of us pulling back on our social media use and engaging more in face-to-face interactions, wanting to showcase your life online isn’t necessarily unhealthy. That said, if you feel like you are reliant on multiple ‘likes’ to feel valued – and feel like you don’t matter if you don’t achieve that – you could probably do with asking yourself some reflective questions. The way you use social media might be a symptom, rather than a cause, of a disconnect between what you think you have to offer the world and the unquantifiable, exquisite value you bring to the world every day simply by virtue of being yourself.

I did a social media detox a while ago and although it was short-lived (obviously) this did change the way I approach Facebook, Twitter and Instagram in a lasting way. Thankfully, I’ve never had the problem of aligning my sense of worth with my social media ‘reach’ or approval ratings – but my sense of self-worth has certainly struggled as a direct result of how I was using social media. The result was me feeling deeply inadequate for not having a life as glamorous or as exciting or as love-filled as other people ‘appear’ – and the key word here is ‘appear’ – to have. The good thing is, I was able to recognise that although Instagram et al were making me feel crap about myself, that was really a result of my low self-esteem – social media was merely exacerbating an existing problem. Which I’m taking steps to address, BTW. Understanding and honouring my value as a human being, and not using other people’s lives nor societal expectations as a yardstick for that, is an ongoing process for me.*

By the way, going back to the narcissism thing (in case you needed some reassurance)... if you’re worried you’re a narcissist, you’re not. Because if you were a narcissist you wouldn’t have enough self-awareness to even consider yourself one. (Good to know.)

I’m not really sure where this leaves Kanye, but I love his music, regardless.

* Read my blog post on comparison syndrome in relation to social media here.