I was born a lion and I’m not sorry
This is a story about learning that I don’t need to apologize for who I am. In order for this story to make sense, there are three things you need to know about me:
- My mom introduced me to musicals when I was ten years old and they have been a constant soundtrack throughout my life.
- I swapped out my “real” camera for that of my iPhone long ago and don’t regret it. Yet, I get the phone with the least memory, forcing me to backup my photos and delete them every so often, keeping only a precious few on my phone to make room for more.
- I have Crohn’s disease and it almost killed me. When I was 19, I spent 6 months in and out of the hospital, had four surgeries, and eventually 10 inches of my intestines removed.
Six years ago, one of my coworkers (and now dear friend) doodled on the whiteboard in my office.
It was after a conversation in which I told her I couldn’t help being a lion, expressing my frustration that I had been given the feedback to temper myself and be more … docile. My manager gave me the feedback after a meeting where I professionally, yet assuredly shared some ideas. One of my teammates had complained — and he would later take credit for these very ideas. I was perplexed. I wasn’t resistant to feedback, but I didn’t understand what I had done wrong. I asked others who were in the meeting and they too didn’t understand what I had done wrong.
This is what she drew:
She reassured me that me being me wasn’t bad. Sure, I can grow and be better, but having confidence and being articulate are not things about myself I needed to change.
This wasn’t the first time, nor was it anywhere close to the last, I would receive feedback like this. And each time it was as if the same wound was cut open again and deeper than the last time, creating this violently tender spot. It’s taken me years to boil it all down, but the essence of the feedback was that I should just be quiet, that the simple act of me opening my mouth was the problem. It was never offered in those words, but it was always offered without examples, without any hint at what I actually needed to do different. And I probed hard to understand. Was it my tone? Was it the words I used? What had I done wrong?
I stared at the drawing on my whiteboard. Something about seeing the contrast of the bold, decisive text next to the most unassuming, kind looking lion made me pause. It was as if I was looking in the mirror for the first time.
I was fearless. I had courage. I was poised. I carried myself with confidence. I didn’t back down when I was pushed into a corner. I was like a damn lion and was done being shamed for it.
Or, so I thought.
Every time I would receive another round of “just be quiet, just don’t be you” feedback, I would have to remind myself it was okay to be me. It became a constant exercise in validating my very essence. I would look at the picture of the whiteboard drawing and remind myself that me being me wasn’t bad and if I hadn’t done anything wrong, then I had nothing to change, nothing from which to grow, nothing for which to be sorry.
I have kept that whiteboard drawing on my phone for nearly six years. I transfer it during the process of switching to a new phone and it’s among the handful I never delete when I clear my phone’s memory to make room for new photos.
Somewhere over the years I became almost grateful for this trend. It taught me to discern what feedback was worth taking for who I want to be and what feedback would be considered, but maybe not acted upon. It taught me to ask for specific examples and really take time to be sure I understood the feedback before even thinking of acting on it. It made me even more grateful for all of the useful, valid feedback I was offered. Some days, I felt proud that I would not allow myself to be broken by the gigantic pile of “just don’t be you” conversations. And sometimes (and not just related to this), I would even wonder what it would take to break me.
I’ve been through a lot. Almost dying, accepting the diagnosis of a chronic, life-threatening illness, the usual battering of heartbreak, bad bosses, really bad bosses; the usual and then some — enough to make me honestly wonder what it would take to break me. Life has given me many opportunities to break, and like some ridiculous trope, in 2016, I almost did.
For so many of us, 2016 was a bad year. So bad, we have the memes to prove it. So bad, it was hard to believe 2017 would end up being just as bad to a little worse for so many of us.
In the middle of 2016, I texted my partner that maybe I needed to change who I am. After a year in the most toxic work environment I’ve experienced, the gaslighting had worked. I finally saw the edge of the cliff and was so close to broke, my toes could curl over the edge. That pile of “just don’t be you” fell on top of me. I believed them.
Nearly.
My partner, some amazing colleagues and friends, lessons in self compassion, and the courage to change jobs helped me identify what was really going on and not allow myself to stop believing in myself, to lose myself.
It was in the act of changing jobs, that I realized that leaving a bad situation was just the beginning. The harder part came next: healing.
There were so many moments over that next year, when I thought I was over it — beyond it. Then, something would happen and I would be right back there, questioning my very being. Here’s the thing about healing … usually it’s paired with growth and depending on the wound, it’s amazing what can help or slow it down.
Halfway through my healing journey, my younger sister suggested I listen to the Hamilton soundtrack. Listening to it over and over, hearing the story about a loudmouth man not scared of sharing his opinions, his conviction — I wept. The interplay between Hamilton and Burr became an allegory for my fight to hang onto myself. Every time I felt that twinge of doubt about being me, I would ask myself, “If I stand for nothing, what will I fall for?” Little, by little, line by line, song by song, I felt confidence return. I’d rather be a Hamilton than a Burr. Sometimes, I would feel silly for relying on the soundtrack to a musical to keep the path of healing open and doable. But again, here’s the thing about healing …. usually it’s paired with growth and depending on the wound, it’s amazing what can help or slow it down.
I found something that helped my healing. And once I did, I could see the growth that was happening. Being a loudmouth person not scared of sharing her opinions, her convictions, has certain traps. It has certain consequences that don’t always match my intentions. I grew to have more balance. I learned that I can speak with confidence (I can’t help it), but I can remind those I am talking with that I don’t actually think I know everything. I also grew to stop feeling the need to be sorry for who I am. It’s like feelings. I can’t control what I feel, but I can control what comes next. Applying that to my state of being has helped me become an even better lion.
I was born a lion, I am willing to and want to be an even better one, I’m not throwing away my shot, and I’m not sorry.
