Recently at the ranch where my horse, Wilson, lives, I got the opportunity to learn how to navigate driving on a clay dirt road slick from rain in a rear-wheel drive car—if you know, you know. I performed a couple of pretty sick fishtails in the process, and I’ve got to admit that driving through the mud never fully moved into my comfort zone. That said, if I wanted to see Wilson (and I really, really always want to spend time in my happy place with my horse), I had to build up some momentum, move through the discomfort, and get to the other side. There was no happy place without embracing driving off the pavement first.
In The Gifts of Imperfection, Brené Brown, PhD, writes, “I’m not suggesting that we wade out into the swamp and set up camp … What I’m proposing is that we learn how to wade through it. We need to see that standing on the shore and catastrophizing about what could happen if we talked honestly about our fears is actually more painful than grabbing the hand of a trusted companion and crossing the swamp. And, most important, we need to learn why constantly trying to maintain our footing on the shifting shore as we gaze across to the other side of the swamp—where our worthiness waits for us—is much harder work than trudging across.”
So often when I first start working with gals, they have become professional swamp avoiders, and for good reason as swamps are messy, sticky, and deeply uncomfortable. Initially, my clients often feel overwhelmed and as if they are at a complete loss as to where to start picking their way through the muck. In many ways, I have begun to think of myself as a swamp guide, helping my gals to find the right gear and path to take to navigate through to the other side. Nothing makes me prouder than when a gal I’ve been working with realizes that they’ve gained a template for moving through the hard stuff, no matter how big or small the next swamp may be.
Recently at the ranch where my horse, Wilson, lives, I got the opportunity to learn how to navigate driving on a clay dirt road slick from rain in a rear-wheel drive car—if you know, you know. I performed a couple of pretty sick fishtails in the process, and I’ve got to admit that driving through the mud never fully moved into my comfort zone. That said, if I wanted to see Wilson (and I really, really always want to spend time in my happy place with my horse), I had to build up some momentum, move through the discomfort, and get to the other side. There was no happy place without embracing driving off the pavement first.
In The Gifts of Imperfection, Brené Brown, PhD, writes, “I’m not suggesting that we wade out into the swamp and set up camp … What I’m proposing is that we learn how to wade through it. We need to see that standing on the shore and catastrophizing about what could happen if we talked honestly about our fears is actually more painful than grabbing the hand of a trusted companion and crossing the swamp. And, most important, we need to learn why constantly trying to maintain our footing on the shifting shore as we gaze across to the other side of the swamp—where our worthiness waits for us—is much harder work than trudging across.”
So often when I first start working with gals, they have become professional swamp avoiders, and for good reason as swamps are messy, sticky, and deeply uncomfortable. Initially, my clients often feel overwhelmed and as if they are at a complete loss as to where to start picking their way through the muck. In many ways, I have begun to think of myself as a swamp guide, helping my gals to find the right gear and path to take to navigate through to the other side. Nothing makes me prouder than when a gal I’ve been working with realizes that they’ve gained a template for moving through the hard stuff, no matter how big or small the next swamp may be.
