Tiny Buddha's Guide to Loving Yourself: 40 Ways to Transform Your Inner Critic and Your Life (18 page)

That moment of clarity in the desert ultimately led to rediscovery, which was uncomfortable. I wasn't leaving the apartment because all I had was myself, and I didn't know or trust that person. And one day, I rode a bus and ate alone in a restaurant for the first time in my life, terrified.

My year in San Francisco became the most humble year of my life. My clothes didn't even fill one dresser. I went from being a corporate guru to stocking the fridge in a law office. As cliché as it sounds, taking the unpaved back road on this journey and abandoning the familiar was liberating. My clothes fit better. I was glowing. My fiancé and I scraped by, but we were living in a gorgeous Edwardian apartment and eating amazing yet simple meals.

Indulgence was a scoop of ice cream or a good beer. Date nights were no longer extravagant dinners in ties and dresses, but walks to
the park after work to find my fiancé on a blanket reading. Then, we would wander across the city for hours until we decided to call it a night. We didn't judge or expect anything that year, and we appreciated everything.

I knew that it would be hard for me not to fall into old habits once I moved back to Virginia. I am a yes man again, and the anger toward myself builds each day. I feel as though I scattered pieces of myself across the country—my heart in San Francisco, my freedom in Marfa—but that's not true. I know that I am capable of practicing kindness toward others and myself while being authentic.

I wrote to a friend after reading Baron Baptiste's
Journey into Power:

I've been reading this book for a yoga workshop, and there was a passage about releasing yourself from the lies of everyday life that define you, and that you may not like who you really are at first, but at least it's true. I was so sad because I realized that's what happened in Marfa. I finally saw myself for the first time in many years and was mad at who I had allowed myself to become. At the same time, I was so happy and even scared to find “me.” I think I'm longing for the day to come back or at least searching for a way to bring a piece of that here!

I'm now making it a point to live authentically. Being immersed in a yoga teacher training program has taught me a lot of techniques, one of which is to stop trying to win the Oscar. Essentially, stop playing roles. The first question people ask in the DC area is, “What
do you do?” My answer is, “Hi. I'm Julie.” This usually prompts, “Yeah, but what do you do?”

My next answer is, “Well, today I took the dog for a walk and had a nice nap.” I've stopped being the consultant, the dog owner, the victim, or the gardener and started just being Julie.

The next step is to get rid of baggage. Once a month, I go through every closet and donate items I haven't worn or used in awhile. We tend to live excessively, and it's liberating to not let material possessions define you. Then, of course, there's getting rid of mental baggage through meditation. Even if I only have five minutes, I pull into the parking garage at work, fold my legs in the driver's seat, and close my eyes. Dropping the day's to-do list allows me to focus on the now.

Lastly, I make it a priority to stay connected with genuine friends. Real friends will be honest with how you land. I've started having regular check-ins with friends who will speak honestly about the energy I emit.

By the way, my friend replied to that email: “You will find a piece of Marfa if it is within you now.” It is here, deep within my chest. It radiates soothing sunlight and power. It is beautiful and it shines.

by Charlie Tranchemontagne

Our lives only improve when we are willing to take chances—and the first and most difficult risk we can take is to be honest with ourselves
.

—W
ALTER
A
NDERSON

For almost two and a half decades, I hid behind masks. As a very young child I was my true self, like most children are; but as I got older, I started putting on masks as a way to fit in. One of my first masks was that of a juvenile delinquent. Over time, this mask became almost embedded in my skin. I discovered the world of alcohol, drugs, and mayhem, and I felt trapped and unable to escape from it. Shame and guilt filled me with fear and kept me from breaking free from this chaotic lifestyle. I was afraid to ask for help.

But in the late eighties, I attended a self-help workshop. This presentation introduced me to a way of living that radically altered my life—inner journeying. I was intrigued by the presenter's story and his thoughts of living a life that required him to look inside for answers. I had very little understanding of the concept or practice of looking within.

The workshop focused on removing masks, and it opened up a whole new way of living for me. As I listened to the speaker, I found myself thinking about my own life and the masks that I hid behind. I felt uncomfortable, so I started to question how I was living. This new self-awareness pushed me to start looking inside for answers to the problems that were plaguing me.

I was young and self-employed, on my way to making a name for myself in my business community. I was also absorbed with weight-lifting and exercising. (I was the typical case of the skinny kid who transformed his body.) To others, my life looked good. But my inner landscape told a different story. I was lost in a world of darkness, pain, and anxiety. Even though I was experiencing some modest success with my business, my past was starting to haunt me. I felt like a fraud, and I was starting to feel like my outer world was about to crumble.

What kept me going through all these years of turmoil was the fact that I had become an expert on wearing masks. I had no idea who I was, and despite all the good things going on in my life, I felt like I wasn't being honest with myself. I wanted to be real.

When reflecting on what I could possibly share with others in regards to wearing masks, I immediately thought of a poem I read shortly after attending the self-help workshop. The poem, written by Charles C. Finn, was titled
Please Hear What I Am Not Saying
, and it centered on the idea of wearing thousands of masks and being afraid to take them off. Finn's words seemed to tell my story, and I knew after reading his poem that I wanted to start changing my life.

Spending time reading new books and reflecting on my life in solitude did not come easily to me. I had to rearrange my priorities, which took practice. But as I spent more time reading and reflecting on the poem, my walls of resistance began to weaken. Light was starting to shine in some very dark places within me. My initial reaction was joy, followed quickly by fear. I knew I desperately wanted to change, but I felt afraid of the unknown.

When my masks started to come off, I felt like people could look right through me. I felt raw and naked. I did, however, experience a new inner freedom that was unfamiliar to me. My self-confidence rose along with my self-esteem, and despite the long road that lie ahead, I felt ready to start traveling it.

Presently, I am working on trying to remove a mask that has worn out its welcome. This is the mask that I started to wear shortly after I had a profound experience through skydiving. On October 8, 1990 I was sitting on the floor of a small Cessna plane, flying at an altitude of about four thousand feet. Resting on a small platform, with both legs hanging outside the door, I was seconds away from jumping.

What brought me to this crossroad was the fact that, despite appearances, I was still a mess on the inside because I still lacked inner peace. The workshop and poem had helped move me in a good direction, but I needed something more to push me over the edge. Skydiving would be that push. I had chosen to skydive as a way to surrender my life to a power greater than myself. I no longer wanted
to endure the pain I was experiencing. I knew I needed help with overcoming this obstacle I was facing.

Sitting in the doorway of the plane was a surreal moment for me—one that would allow me to break through years of pain. At that moment before I jumped, I told myself, “Keep your eyes open,” and with a silent prayer, I leapt from the doorway. In an instant, I knew with certainty that I would never be the same after this experience. Yet, as ecstatic as I was, I choose not to tell anyone why I had jumped. I thought it would be best to keep it to myself.

Up until that point, I had not shared my inner journeying experience with anyone. Religious or spiritual stuff still made me a little uncomfortable. I didn't realize that in not sharing this, I was hiding my true self—my “real” self. People around me knew that something was going on in my life, but I didn't disclose the driving force behind the changes they were seeing. It seemed easy just to keep things quiet.

So here I am, ready to take this “closet seeker” mask off. How do I do that? For me it is about finally admitting to myself that the mask no longer fits, and I am no longer willing to live this way. I wouldn't say that I have a “one size fits all” mask removal strategy, but I have found that when I am willing to step out of my comfort zone, good things will happen. I need to trust that.

I also know that self-honesty has a way of breaking through walls—big walls! What follows self-honesty, for me, is always action—taking some action, whether it's a small step or a giant leap. Either way, it's life-changing.

You may need to take a leap of your own to get in touch with your true self. It doesn't need to be huge, as long as you move forward in some way. Like Nike says, “Just do it.” What's important is to find what works for you and start moving, inch by inch, beyond your fear.

Writing this essay is my way of trying to move beyond my fear, and removing this mask that has kept me isolated from other seekers. Most importantly, I did this to be honest with myself. Being honest with ourselves is the surest way to move forward on the path of self-discovery.

by Wendy Miyake

What makes you vulnerable makes you beautiful
.

—B
RENÉ
B
ROWN

Vulnerability has never been my strong suit. It's no wonder. In order to be vulnerable, you have to be okay with all of you. That's the thing about vulnerability that no one tells you about. Being vulnerable is not about showing the parts of you that are shiny and pretty and fun. It's about revealing what you deny or keep hidden from other people. I bet you've never said to a friend, “Oh my god, I just love that I'm insecure.” But that's the point of vulnerability, isn't it? You've got to love everything if you want to be vulnerable by choice.

Most of us have probably experienced vulnerability through default. More often than not, we are either forced into that state through conflict, or we are surprised by it after our circumstances feel more comfortable. Few of us consciously choose vulnerability because the stakes are too high. If we reveal our authentic selves, there is the great possibility that we will be misunderstood, labeled, or, worst of all, rejected. The fear of rejection can be so powerful that some wear it like armor.

My first real experience with vulnerability came when I was twenty-five. I had just accepted a position teaching literature to juniors and seniors in high school. This was quite possibly the most intimidating situation I had ever gotten myself into up to that point. We're talking teenagers here, the most extraterrestrial of all age groups!

To make matters worse, I asked my parents for advice. Being longtime elementary school teachers, my parents had a plethora of horror stories to share about unruly students, unreasonable parents, and teachers who could not control their classrooms. Each story ended with, “And that's why she quit and ended up going into retail.”

I didn't want to be a quitter, so I listened well when they told me that I needed to be strong from the get-go, that I needed to show my students “who was boss.” In the words of my father, “You can be a bitch and work your way down to nice, but you can't be nice and work your way up to being strong.”

I took my parents' advice to heart. In the first week, I flunked seventy-five percent of my students on the summer reading exam. I yelled a lot to control the classroom environment. And when my students would complain about an assignment, I would say to them, “Remember, this class is not a democracy, it's a monarchy, and guess who's the queen?”

When I read those words now, I can't help but cringe. But at the time, I believed vulnerability was a liability. I was okay with being the dragon lady. It was safe. And under that façade, no one
knew how terrified I actually was. So I wore that armor as if my life depended on it. If I had my way, I would have kept my guard up for the rest of that year. But my students were much smarter than me. They must have known on some level that, in the presence of true vulnerability, no one could remain closed off.

Perhaps no event demonstrated this better than when the senior honors project was in jeopardy. It was not traditional curriculum, and thus it came under scrutiny. My seniors were visibly upset because they had worked hard on their group papers, and they were looking forward to their presentations, where faculty from the high school as well as the local university would be present.

When my students expressed their feelings so honestly and openly, I could not turn away. I wanted to fight not only for the project, but also for the students themselves. When I thought we would have no choice but to abandon the whole thing, I remember telling my students that I wanted to quit. For the first time, I was very honest with them about how I was feeling and what I wanted for them. I was, perhaps, the most vulnerable I had been all year. And that moment of vulnerability paid off big-time.

When I left the school at the end of the year, I received many letters from my students. In them, I discovered that they were touched by the fact that I had fought so hard for them, that I was honest with them, and that I believed in them so passionately. At the time, I probably said to the universe something like, “Ah! You tricked me! This was supposed to be just a temporary job until my
real life began. I wasn't supposed to invest in anyone or be committed to anything or care about anyone.”