Photo by Joshua Earle on Unsplash (blog)

 Somewhere on the journey of learning to live fully as someone with social anxiety, there's a new hurdle: learning to keep up emotionally with the newly active social part of yourself.  As you grow more comfortable in the situations that previously provoked fear or avoidance a surprising thing can happen: you can find yourself becoming more social, more outgoing than your emotional self is prepared for.  This is especially true of socially anxious folks who lean toward the introverted end of the spectrum.  Suddenly there's a new, rather bombastic voice in the mix that wants to go on all those fabulous adventures the fearful self had been so good at talking you out of.  And before you know it, you're burned out with trying to keep up with this newly-freed sense of creative living. 

As I started driving again - contentedly, for the first time in my life - I found myself at a stopping point at my therapist's office, the farthest I'd yet driven.  I didn't have an appointment, or any commitments; it was just for practice.  Yet, as I sat in the parking lot, exuberant at the achievement and my comfort level with it, my adrenaline started to kick in, and I found myself antsy to go to the next destination - whatever whim might make it to be.  I asked myself: can I just rest in this space for a minute?  The answer, frankly, proved to be no.  I couldn't.

Sometimes rest doesn't happen on command, and sometimes the treasured tools become obsolete.  The affirmations are simply words once again, the resonance of your truth is frail, and your experience is imperfectly uncomfortable.  But the achievement in that moment is that you can sit amid rising anxiety and just observe it.  In moments like these it's frustrating, truly, because this big life outside of the comfort zone isn't as flawless or peaceful as you'd hoped.  The illusion of living without anxiety fizzles into the reality of living with anxiety.  But there's the living, and that's cause for a celebration even if it doesn't feel as comfortable as you expected.

There's a place between rest and action.  I call it allowing.  In our best-is-better world it's hard to be content with something so mediocre as acceptance, but mediocrity is the result of comparison, and comparison is, as they say, the thief of joy; comparison is an act of aggression against presence.

Can you make a home for yourself in acceptance, in allowing yourself to be valiantly imperfect?  Can you stop comparing your experience with what could have been, even just for a moment?  And can you finally, amid the noise and even the sorrow of this flawed place, give yourself permission to rest in the knowledge that this, too, is an achievement?  That this, too, is a manifestation of peace?  As the luminous Sue Monk Kidd once said, "Just to be is holy, and just to live is a gift."

Photo by Roman Kraft (instagram)

I’m learning that we are vastly layered beings, complex in our imperfections, which we are so quick to scorn and which we so quickly try to hide, avoid, or fix. But every imperfection is just as much a method of communicating with ourselves. Fear, I’ve learned, may seem like a basic inconvenience, but underneath it – as with so many things – there is a part of ourselves that is just trying to be seen, that just wants to communicate our struggle. Listening, I’ve learned, is most certainly not a weakness. Listening does not mean giving in. Listening means bearing witness. Listening means gathering wisdom and gently correcting what is inaccurate. But mostly, the act of listening is the act of being open-hearted. Listening is being curious. Can you imagine being curious without opening your heart? If you were to ask me what I love about myself or how I would describe myself, that would be it: I have an open heart and a curious mind.

And those are my greatest tools, the only things I really need because they can create moments of bravery and they can cultivate an attitude of kindness. It’s the opposite – a closed mind and a closed heart – that breed fear and intolerance and that absolutely stunt our growth. It’s not what I need, and the world certainly needs no more of it. But what makes openness such a brave, impossible thing is the vulnerability behind it. And vulnerability is often something we have to relearn. We mistakenly believe vulnerability is the opposite of strength when in reality vulnerability is the threshold we all must cross in order to be truly strong, truly brave.

Open hearts, curious minds – not just with others, but with ourselves.

There’s an awful lot to be brought down by throughout the year, whether it’s the personal stresses that complicate our everyday lives or the bigger, often scarier things going on in the world at large. There’s always something that prompts our heads to shake, our eyes to turn downward, and our shoulders to sag under the weight of an invisible but emotionally tangible burden. Sometimes you just want to cry. Sometimes you just need to cry. That’s okay. (I’m stilling learning this.)

The holidays have always been special to me in part because they offer a bit of wisdom in dealing with the things that can weigh our shoulders down; rather than avoiding, escaping, ignoring, they teach us to shine a light. The holidays don’t symbolize turning away from what’s difficult, but rather turning towards it, letting the unsightly dark spots of life be seen; witnessing them, accepting them, and most importantly, sending love and peace where it’s needed. What the holidays symbolize, as it turns out, is remarkable instruction on how to live.

It’s no coincidence that light plays a big part in this season, whether it applies to a religion or a tradition or a personal inclination (a menorah, a Christmas tree, a candle, a Yule log). The most basic truth of light is that it is illuminated by darkness. Light can alter darkness, but darkness can’t snuff out light. Even the night comes only because the sun chooses to set.

What this symbolism of light during the holiday season means to me is the practice of peace, joy, and constancy. Not a perfect practice, but a hopeful one. In my experience, it’s about simply endeavoring. I believe that life is about doing the best we can, and the holidays – this season of light and peace, of comfort and joy – help me define what my best is.

Peace and joy are stalwart qualities when they’re nurtured into positions of power within us; which is to say, when we cultivate them and help them grow to a size that cannot be overlooked. Feed them more often than anger and resentment and the difference will amaze you. But we do essentially have to coexist with all the different atmospheres of our emotional selves, just like we have to coexist with all the atmospheres of the emotional world in which we live. I’ve learned that peace and joy help with that, too. Gradually, whenever I’m met with a difficulty that burdens my spirit, my spirit does its best to acknowledge the darkness with the patience of peace while the compassion of joy sends love where it’s needed. I’ve also found that my motivation for sending out love can be so strong that it overpowers that instinct to turn away. This practice has proven to be strong and valiant for me and I’m grateful that the holidays come around every year to remind me, and to help me celebrate it.