Beautiful Things Are Happening

I remember the first time I worried I might not ever be okay.
I was fourteenish, embroiled in a toxic not-quite-relationship with an older boy who’d discovered the exquisite pleasure of exploiting my insecurities. I had burgeoning confidence in my potential; I could picture a successful, if difficult, road ahead. But secure, relatively intelligent young girls who are quite sure they’re doing all right aren’t any fun to manipulate, so he began to poke holes in my bright future.
“You really need to be more independent,” was the regular refrain, delivered with tender cruelty I was meant to mistake for tough love.
“It’s a hard world out there, dear,” and “you’ll struggle for sure,” and “good thing I’m here to help.”
I got miffed, all the time. I even pushed back some, when courage was close at hand. On some level, I understood these criticisms were as rich as turtle cheesecake coming from a person who had accomplished less in his 18 years than I had in the four years that separated us. I had a lot to learn, in the blindness skills department most of all, but I was competing at music festivals, getting excellent grades, and managing not one but two chronic conditions without much medical support. I was about as on track as any teenager I knew.
He, on the other hand, was perpetually angry, hopelessly off track, with an uncertain future and a penchant for blaming his disabilities for abusive outbursts and bouts of frightening possessiveness. If anything, I should have been the one clucking with concern, but much as I sensed the wrongness of it all, I let his doubt poison my faith. Faith is there when the odds aren’t favourable, and to be disabled in a harsh world is to live with unfavourable odds. And faith, more than skills and talents and support, has always been the engine of my success for that very reason. I’m convinced he knew that.
In my senior year of high school, that engine had all but stalled. I’d broken all contact with that toxic friend long before, and he had since died suddenly. He could no longer mail me packages I didn’t want, or threaten suicide if I didn’t play nicer, or use social media to stalk me, or email sanctimonious lectures about my tragic inability to take care of myself. But the damage was done. He had triggered a landslide of second-guessing that, helped along by myriad forces in my life, had buried me to the point where all I could do was dread everything – dread university, dread my first job, dread new cities and exciting adventures and fresh mistakes to run with. I still had so much to learn, and I was paralyzed, rather than energized, by all of it.
Depressing, amiright?
Fortunately for us all, this is a new-year-new-decade reflection post, and those have to have a happy ending and a hopeful outlook. Them’s the rules.
The past decade has presented a lot of pain and self-doubt, brought on in many cases by the doubt of others. The pressure to make something of myself—to ‘transcend’ blindness, chronic pain, mental illness, limited educational opportunities, the whole bit—sat smugly atop the self-defeating prophecy that I’d never do or be enough. What was the point in trying?
But it has also blessed me with plenty of people who had so much faith that they couldn’t conceive of me being anything other than enough, maybe more than enough. I’d make mistakes, sure, and fall flat on my face a few times given that stubborn streak running through me. Ultimately, though, I’d pick myself up and keep charging ahead, because that’s just who I am.
“Listen,” one friend said bracingly during one of my late-night fall-apart sessions, “you are going to screw things up sometimes, in the blindness department and in the general life department. You’ll put reds in with your whites and burn hell out of your dinner and at some point you’re going to get really lost in a new place, and all of that will suck.”
“Exactly!” I wailed, missing the point spectacularly.
“It’ll suck, but you’ll wake up the next day and realize that life keeps going. And you’ll discover after a while that trying stuff is messy and scary and you can’t be good at everything you touch. I was embarrassingly far into living on my own before I felt comfortable with my life skills. I survived. You’ll survive too, and then you’ll understand that when someone says ‘you’ll never make it,’ that’s not helping you. That’s not motivation. That’s not love.”
This come-to-Jesus moment came on the heels of another friend getting so sick of my constant self-flagellation that he nearly cried with sheer frustration.
“I swore to myself I wouldn’t sit here and watch you do this to yourself anymore. Seeing you beat the shit out of yourself all the time hurts me, and it’s not my idea of a good time. Cut it out.”
(Some of my friends sure knew how to bring the constructive tough love, wowsers.)
As many of you know, I did end up going to university and getting jobs and doing fine on my own. I learned most of the skills I’d need to do well in the world as a disabled person, as a writer, as a professional, as an aunt and mentor and wife. And at one of my lowest moments, total strangers would remind me that I’m not alone in my doubt and my despair, that if you’re running low on faith you can always borrow someone else’s.
This journey hasn’t been romantic, and I’m still learning to have faith in myself and ask for help when I need it. I’m still suppressing the reflex to put myself down, just so I don’t have to deal with fear and failure head on.
But here is the wonderful, indispensable lesson of the decade: now that I’ve allowed people to believe in me, now that I’ve let their faith rekindle mine, brave and beautiful things are happening.
I’m wide open to another ten years of failures, and to many more beautiful things.

Singing up the Mountain

There’s a piece of wisdom I’ve often heard, though I’ve never traced its origin:

In life, we’re all just hiking up the mountain. You can complain about how your feet are sore, or you can sing all the way up. Your choice.

I’m no champion of relentless positivity. I maintain that, for people whose brains are wired like mine, mantras and affirmations bring on more depression than inspiration. I don’t wear rose-coloured glasses well, and even my most indulgent friends remind me to watch my pessimistic streak.

Yet, the idea of life as a long, mandatory hike appeals to me. Some will have an easier time than others. Some will find the path to be wide and accommodating, designed for their every need and wish. Others, especially those who represent at least one minority, will find the hike more arduous. Perhaps the path is narrow and winding. Perhaps your equipment is in rough shape, and you don’t have the means to upgrade. Perhaps your way is obstructed by treacherous pebbles that will send you tumbling if you’re not careful. Perhaps it’s littered with concerned strangers telling you to turn back, choose a less ambitious path, or adjust your pace to a speed they consider more appropriate.

Whatever your mountain looks like, whichever obstacles you might encounter, only you can decide how best to climb it. You can take advantage of the wide, welcoming paths, never sparing a thought for those on more dangerous journeys. You might decide to stray from your comfortable stroll to shift a boulder or clear a trail for someone else. If, like me, your hike is rocky and unpredictable, you may want to contribute to a large-scale effort to make the hike safer and more equitable for everyone who is stuck on this mountain with you. (This mountain is yours. There is no right way–only your way.)

There is another choice to make, and as I experience one of the most trying periods of my life, I’m thinking more often than usual about this mountain of mine. There have been times—and I’m sure there will be more—when climbing felt natural and simple. Boulders were moved from my path by forces much stronger than me. Fellow hikers let me lean on their broad shoulders. The map was clear. I knew where I was going and how I’d get there.

At this moment, my landscape is much more uncertain, and I am tired. My feet are sore. My canteen is nearly empty, and my fellow hikers carry burdens even heavier than my own. I can’t hear myself think for the struggles around me, and my desire to broaden the path for others is tinged with despair at my own sad smallness.

But as I write this, as I contemplate a path that has never seemed less welcoming, I know that it’s time I started singing again.

My song might falter while I cling to jagged places. Tears and frustration might dampen its beauty. Sometimes, I’ll be making up the lyrics, or humming nonsensically, because damn it if I haven’t forgotten all the words.

But I don’t know of any other way to keep climbing.

So I’m gonna sing my way up this mountain. It won’t be pretty, but it will sustain me. It will have to do, because turning back? Giving up? Slowing my step to suit someone else’s comfort? These aren’t options—not for me.

Yes, we can still complain that our feet are sore, that we are tired, that we can’t read our maps. These admissions are valid and necessary. We will need to pause, rest, drink some water, lean on the nearest shoulder.

But whenever we can, wherever we can, let’s not forget to sing.