A couple of years back, on holiday, I tried acro-yoga for the first time. Acro-yoga is this kinda cross-hybrid of acrobatics and yoga that seems to be mainly about the joy and the showing up. I had never done anything like it. But I wanted to try it. It looked really fun, and I was feeling strong and capable from the crossfit so I was thinking “yeah, I should do that!”…. but I was also sitting in fear.

My fears were all about my stories. So many stories. Stories that went back 35 years, to primary school when I was picked last for sport. Stories that had to do with that special kind of shame that only the cool kids in high school could bestow on those they considered just totally worthless. Stories that I don’t think about very often these days in my real life - because in my real life I’m competent and capable and in charge. I do stuff. I’m good at it. And for the most part I’m surrounded by people that care about me…. and so I have no need to sit with emotions that would bring such stories to the fore.

But. But when I’m doing something new, and a bit nervous, and insecure, they come flying back from that special part of my brain that holds such nonsense as totally true.

So my stories about acro-yoga? Or any kind of sport-related endevour? That I couldn't do it. I wouldn't be able to, and everyone would see I wasn't able to. Worse than that, they would see that I was arrogant enough to think that I could, even though I obviously couldn't. I was afraid that I would fail and look foolish. That I wouldn't be strong enough, athletic enough, enough. Fear of being judged for even turning up at the class - like who do you think you are to think that you would be able to try something like this. What gives you the right to think you belong here? You aren’t strong enough. Or coordinated enough. Or enough of any kind.

Brene Brown says that two of of our greatest shame triggers are “who do you think you are” and “I’m not enough”. Yep. All the shame triggers firing like fireworks.

As a big aside - I thought about writing this post after hearing similar types of stories from people considering coming to The Craft Sessions. They say to me "I'd love to come but I just don't think that I am crafty enough. Everyone there will be all knowing-what-they-are-doing-ish and I'm not that good". “I’m not talented enough - everyone who comes makes such beautiful things”. And so I wanted to say to you lovely potential crafters who aren’t coming to craft events because you feel these feelings. Please know that there is always all levels of ability present at every craft event, because craft is something where we are all beginners over and over again. We get put back into the beginner box every time we turn our hand to a new skill. It’s just that with practice we get better at being a beginner and we gain confidence in our ability to learn. I also know that we all know that there is always more to learn – and that we are all at different stages of our learning! Part of the joy of craft is that it is actually impossible to learn it all. Noone but noone knows it all. We are all learning and so the only real qualification for coming to any craft event is an interest in making things. The only prereq for being crafty is that you sometimes craft.

So back to acro-yoga. To get myself into the class I set myself up by intentionally dobbing myself in to my mates. I told my girlfriends I was on holiday with that I was going to do the class. They know me well so they know what I am doing; they know about my avoidance and my perfectionism and they lovingly (and annoyingly) call me on it.

So a few days later, when I rocked up to the class, I started to backout. I felt confronted by all the people outside the acro-yoga place looking all acro-yoga-ish, and I got scared. I totally stepped into avoidance and started making excuses to those same friends, about how I wasn't sure I really wanted to go. I was a bit hot, a bit hungry, a bit tired, a bit anything to get me out of it.

My girlfriends smiled lovingly and said “you have to go”. My choices appeared to come down to either go or they would have had me by the scruff of the neck – kitten style.

When I walked into the studio and got out my mat I nearly ran away. Like ran. It was a beautiful space – sun streaming in through floor to ceiling windows with a beautiful garden view. But screw all that. I could physically feel the urge to run. The teacher wasn't there yet. I could just say I had accidentally gone to the wrong class and walk out.

Right up until introductions were made, I was still coming up with excuses and reasons for why I couldn't do it. And obsessing and rehearsing just walking out. But I took a few deep breaths to get grounded and stayed. As the teacher was doing the introductions I was fighting the urge to run. Brain chanting "Run, Run, Run, Run, out the door, they don't know you, Run, Run". But I didn't. I simply breathed and stood. One breath at a time. One pose then another.

Staying felt hard, like really hard. I was struck by how incredibly vulnerable I felt standing in a room with a bunch of people who were actually no real threat to me at all. I could rationally see why I was feeling the way I was feeling, I could clearly hear all my stories, but still I was shocked by just how big my reaction was.

And it got me curious about why beginning and learning and feeling like we don’t know, have such a big effect on us? What's going on that means I want to run from the room just so people don't see that I can't do something? Why is this feeling of learning or not knowing so difficult for us?

The teacher simply kept reminding us that we didn't need to be any good at it. We simply needed to try; that the class was simply about playing. And she didn't add this but I know the only way we could try was to get ourselves into the room and stay. Stay through the discomfort of possibly being not enough.

She stated that there was no room for apologies in acro-yoga. When you made a mistake rather than saying “sorry” you had to say “surprise”. This was about creating a different kind of space where mistakes were not mistakes but rather play.

What really helped in this class was she was actually addressing the discomfort. She was naming it, and talking about it, and disarming it by acknowledging that it was there for all of us and it was one of the reasons acro-yoga was created. To challenge our ego. To take us to a place where we looked silly. To sit in it and be uncomfortable.

In that 60 minutes I really learnt so many important lessons, not about acro-yoga specifically but more about my stories around vulnerabililty, being a beginner and being enough.

And I’ve thought a lot since about why it was so uncomfortable? Well, here is my working theory…

Showing up is a big deal because showing up means showing others that we want to be part of something. And it’s a risk. We want to run because evolutionarily we are programmed to fit in, and we might not. To not fit in feels like our very survival is threatened. If we are seen as who we really are - incapable and vulnerable - then we won't be loved because we aren’t good enough. And not being loved affects our survival. We would starve without our people.

We want to run because as grown ups we have forgotten what it feels like because we don’t have to sit in the space of not-knowing very often. We are capable and together and competent most of the time. Whereas once when we were children we were used to feeling like the learners. That was our space. That was our status – we were the learners, the beginners. But as adults we are used to being seen as capable, proficient and our self-esteem becomes attached to this view of ourselves – both intrinsically and extrinsically.

When we put ourselves in the space of learning we have to lower our status, we have to be vulnerable – and to sit with that feeling requires a consciousness about our stories. So many of the stories that we have about vulnerability come from a time when we were actually vulnerable - but we aren’t any more - or at least we aren’t in the same way. My narrative about not being good enough no longer serves me nor does it help me in any way. There are no cool kids, and if there were I wouldn’t want to be friends with them because coolness (in the mean highschool sense) isn’t cool, it’s just mean.

The alternative to not getting conscious about our stories and intentional about showing up is that we avoid any situation that involves putting ourselves in this position. That we grow up and we stop learning - and what an incredibly limiting way to live! It would be such a waste; a waste of our potential and who we could be. Because by doing so, by not learning, we are buying into the narrative that we are fixed. That we aren’t becoming at all times and in all ways. And of course we know that isn’t true.

So Acro-yoga. I stayed. It was a ongoing challenge but I simply kept reminding myself that I was fine, my life wasn’t at risk, and I simply needed to stay in place, to stay in the room.

That said, any time during the class when she mentioned doing something I wasn't sure I could do, my insides were in knots. Cartwheels? What do you mean cartwheels? I don't remember being any good at them when I was 8. What makes you think I can do one now? I'm 43 for goodness sakes*.

At the end of the class she got everyone to name what they had felt challenged by. I obviously brought up the 43 and cartwheels. She then pointed out that there were many 43 year olds that could do cartwheels and the reason I thought they were so tricky was because it was now considered normal to be 43 and not do cartwheels. 43 isn't that old she said. And it isn't.

Not being able to cartwheel because I’m 43 is simply another narrative that does not serve me.

In the end, I really really enjoyed it. I got a thrill from the feeling that I was challenging myself and that I showed up. I was chuffed that I had chosen “courageous becoming” over comfort! I gained self-esteem and pride through my bravery . Not that a single person in the room knew that I was being brave – but I did. And that is all that matters.

Felicia x

*46 now!