I did a hot yoga class yesterday morning.
Around the halfway mark, I got up and left the room to get a drink of water and sit in the reception area outside the blazing room a few moments.
I’ve learned the hard way that too many “head below my waist” forward-fold-type movements in a super hot room makes me prone to dizziness and a little nausea, so today I decided to be proactive and get my butt out before I got to that point.
As I sat there and looked out the windows, I pondered the notion of prevention.
Today I did a good job of preventing any problems, but I admit I was self-conscious the whole time.
Before I left. While I was walking out. The whole time I was out of the room. Something was in the back of my brain nagging at me… there were a lot of people in the class, but I was the only one who left the room at any point during the entire session.
Were they wondering where I was?
Were they silently laughing at me?!
Were they judging how weak I am…??
The truth, of course, is that it’s unlikely any of them (with the exception of my partner, who was in the class as well) thought about me at ALL for more than half a second.
But that didn’t stop me from being self-conscious, even though I was doing something preventive and healthy and actually very smart for my body.
So I sat there with a cool washcloth on my neck and wondered… is THIS why we don’t do more preventatively good things? Because we’re afraid of looking dumb or weak or just… different from everyone else?
When I went back into the class, I noticed just how good it felt to get back into the routine’s flow with the group.
Honestly… it felt like I was suddenly “doing the right thing” again.
I suppose this is what psychologists and sociologists mean when they say we are “social creatures.” We care, very much, about what others in our species think of us, whether we mean to or not. We can’t really help it.
It actually takes a lot of effort, and practice, to NOT care so damn much.
To swim against the current, to go against the grain — these things don’t usually physically hurt us, but goodness… it FEELS like they do when we do them.
In a world addicted to visible achievement, invisible wisdom looks like weakness.
I suppose this is why, the older I get, the more I respect people who challenge the status quo.
It’s just so freaking courageous to do anything outside the norm.
Especially these days.
As you’re probably aware, the social climate in the U.S. isn’t really screaming “We welcome inclusiveness of many viewpoints and perspectives!” at the moment. So even the smallest things, the things many of us (especially those who look like me) haven’t previously given a second thought to — like running a workshop that expands diverse thinking or teaching about why consideration of other viewpoints are important — actually feel consequential now.
On the whole, I think this will actually be a good thing. It’s time for people who look like me to get a bit more comfortable with discomfort.
More broadly speaking, though, I want to encourage us all to re-think our understanding of courage.
I think we assume bravery is going to feel a certain way: big, brassy, bold. Like an excitable man on a horse with blue face paint getting an army fired up about freedom…
But I don’t think this is how it feels, most times.
Now I think courage most often feels insecure, unsure, intimidating, isolating… we just choose to act anyway.
If we don’t adjust our understanding, we will likely miss the actions of the most brave among us, because courage doesn’t often “look like courage.” It looks uncomfortable and itchy, like speaking up during the uncomfortable silence. Or like wedging a statement in during the boss’s rant. It looks like standing up for someone else when there’s not a group watching. It looks like exiting a room alone.
I’m becoming convinced that these small, brave actions are the genesis of revolution. That these people are sowing the seeds of a future we actually want.
When the current flows towards silence and conformity, it’s these rebels who are quietly modeling new systems for us, even if we don’t see the full picture of what we’re all building… yet.
I’m not very good at it, but I would like to be one of them.
