may i be blessed, may i feel safe (thoughts for 2017)

I’ve written about positivity before.

I’ve written about positivity lot, actually. A quick search of this blog for the topic brings up about twenty entries in one form or another, from the happiness project I did last year (to moderate success?) to assorted musings on self-care, acting with kindness, self-care, making transitions–etc, etc, etc.

Being positive doesn’t come naturally to me. It’s always been something that I’ve had to work at–left to its own devices, my brain trends towards assuming the worst possible outcome in any given situation, or to self-deprecation, or to all sorts of other unpleasant things that I’ll skip over here for the sake of space, time, and a lack of trigger warnings. The point being, positivity, to me, is work.

(Sometimes, because humor is my very favorite coping mechanism, I make a game out of it. Which mental illness is acting up today? Anxiety? Depression? Some super-fun combination of both? Whee!)

(My husband does not find this game as amusing as I do.)

But I like to work at it, because honestly, the alternative sucks. My dad likes to say I’m an idealist, which is a nice way to phrase it, but I think it’s more that if I don’t work at it, then there I am, just kind of sitting in this swirling pool of negativity that might start out as a reflection of reality but will, thanks to my brain chemistry, very quickly devolve into something much darker.

So we work on positivity instead.

You may have noticed that we started a new year recently–2017, woo! (And none for 2016, you absolute shitshow, oh my god.) Last year, I spent some time setting actual resolutions, which I never do, and for a pretty good reason: they stress me out, and then I get overwhelmed when I don’t keep them. Amazingly enough, I managed to not get super anxious about not keeping all of the resolutions I set last year–and I actually probably ended up keeping about half of them in one way or another. Which, for me, is pretty good.

But it’s a new year. And it’s going to be a rough one.

We’re coming into a new political administration in the US, one that’s heightening anxiety for just about everyone I know. It doesn’t feel like a safe time to be a queer person, a Jewish person, a woman, a disabled person. I have the benefit of being white and financially stable, but so many people don’t. My sense of safety is shaken.

It’s hard to think about positivity right now–and even harder to think honestly about self-care when it kind of seems like the world is collapsing around us.

At a recent retreat for work, I participated in a meditation based around Birkat Kohanim, the priestly blessing. In Jewish communities, this blessing is recited on a number of holy days, as well as on Shabbat, when parents recite it over their children. The prayer goes as follows:

May the Eternal bless you and keep you
May the Eternal’s light shine upon you, and may the Eternal be gracious to you
May the Eternal’s presence be with you, and give you peace.

As we sat together, we focused on the sensations of feeling blessed, and feeling kept. They were warm feelings, I thought: warm like climbing into bed after a long day, warm like an embrace, warm like a guiding hand. And they were cool, too: cool like the dip of your toes into the ocean on the first day of summer, cool like the breeze that comes after a rainstorm, cool like fresh, clean sheets. Focusing on those sensations, we repeated the phrases: May I feel blessed. May I feel safe. 

Tonight I lit Shabbat candles while my social media feeds exploded about Donald Trump’s inauguration. I kept my notifications off.

My blessing practice for this terrifying new world is to surround myself with a resistance that is working to keep justice and safety alive. I’m going to begin with a march for women, alongside some of my closest family members and most loving role models. People who make me feel held, and kept, and safe. I’m going to wrap myself in sensations of warmth. Of coolness. Of calm.

I don’t know if this will be a year of positivity. That might be too much to ask. But it can be a year of practicing blessing.

A year of repeating:

May I be blessed. May I feel safe.

 

happiness project: one year later

A little over a year ago, I started a happiness project.

I started my project because I was realizing that, while there were a lot of good things happening in my life, I wasn’t feeling good about the ways I was spending my time. I was feeling a lack of emotional engagement in the world around me–a combination of mental/emotional burnout from the work I was doing and the world around me, and my own mental health causing me to disengage. Even though I was surrounded by blessings, in my family life, my friends, my clients, I just found myself feeling unhappy more often than not.

My decision to try a happiness project came from reading Gretchen Rubin’s book by the same name. I wasn’t as focused in my approach as she was–I didn’t try to set a new habit or goal each month, or anything like that. But I did–kind of without really thinking about it–follow the basic outline: identifying what brings joy, satisfaction and engagement (and, on the flip side, what brings guilt, anger, and remorse); identifying concrete actions that will boost happiness; and then, the tricky part, following through on those actions.

This year ended up being a lot more of a roller coaster than I expected when I started my project last summer. I got a new job and changed career paths. I moved to a new state. I took up yoga. I struggled a lot with my physical and mental health. There was a lot of change–and we all know how much I love change.

But there were parts of my happiness projects that stuck. I found things that brought me joy: creating things, sharing things with others, spending quality time with people I love, experiencing media in a comfortable way. And I found ways to bring those into my life as habits: I set myself writing goals. I spent more time with friends. I kept a journal. I got a pen pal. I got a library card, and read more books.

I’m going to do a few more posts to be more in-depth about the different habits that have actually stuck with me about my happiness project, but I know the biggest question I have to ask myself after a year of this is: am I happier?

And the answer is:

I don’t know.

It’s hard to measure happiness when you have depression, and harder still when that depression comes in waves that sometimes overshadow everything else. The last few weeks have been especially depressive, and even though I’ve been engaging in a lot of my “happiness practices”–journalling, writing, yoga–I don’t feel as much connection to them, and it’s been difficult to feel my usual warmth. But I still feel a sense of achievement, and that’s a step on the ladder toward happiness–and a sense of achievement is a hard thing to come by in a depressive episode.

But I think that there’s more to it than just being happier. Because I know now what kinds of things move me toward feelings of happiness. Creating something. Writing out what I’m feeling. Quality time with my husband or a friend. Snuggling on the couch with my dog. Doing something that moves my body, whether it’s yoga or going for a walk. Taking the car for a drive so that I can sing at the top of my lungs and not bother anyone else.

The hard thing for me now is to make myself take those steps toward those actions.

Right now we’re in the Jewish month of Elul, and I’m in the middle of participating in a program through the Institute for Jewish Spirituality (because I have the best job ever) focusing on reflective journalling in preparation for the New Year. It’s combining reflection, poetry, introspection, and future-focused thinking–all sorts of things I actually really need right now, as I work through a combination of depression, stress, and trying to sort out how to merge my own happiness goals with my goal for the coming year, which is to focus on strengthening the primary relationships in my life. And that’s a happiness project in and of itself.

So: a year of happiness projects. Am I happier?

Well…

I’m working on it.

on reconnecting (happiness project, part 7)

So let’s just start off by acknowledging that yep, I fell off the face of the earth. My bad, team!

Let’s reconnect.

I’ve been doing a lot of reconnecting lately, in a lot of spheres: physical, emotional, spiritual. It’s been a long, tiring few months: we’ve moved house yet again (though, hopefully, hopefully, for the last time for a long time), I’ve had a few sporadic illnesses that have taken awhile to bounce back from, work has been a whirlwind of activity and new projects…the list goes on. And my moods have been…well.

For someone who really, really doesn’t like change, the number of transitions, relocations, routine adjustments, and sudden changes of plans over the past few months have been challenging, to say the least. I wish i could say I’ve handled all of those challenges gracefully, but that would be a flat-out lie, so I won’t pretend about it. Spouse has been an absolute champ in dealing with me, but I’m absolutely sure that it has been neither fun nor entertaining to spend your down time with a cranky, over-exhausted, stressed-out wife.

So, that whole happiness project thing.

I’ll be honest: it’s fallen by the wayside in a number of ways. I’ve fallen back into a lot of old habits in the last few months–spending most of my downtime on a screen, not seeing friends as much as I’d like to, getting into a very skewed coffee : water intake ratio that generally left me crankier and more tired than I would have been if I was really hydrating well (and/or not drinking absurd amounts of caffeine).

But I’m trying to be better.

Back in May, I bought a three-month yoga membership to a studio near my apartment. I did a lot of yoga in college and some in grad school, and it was really great not just for my fibromyalgia (though it helped a lot with that) but for my mental health and my sense of connection to my mind and my body. The person in your yoga class that starts borderline crying during pigeon/eke pada rajakapotasana? Yeah, that’s me.

IT’S FINE IT’S PART OF THE PRACTICE

Surprisingly–or not–I actually started feeling emotionally better once I started connecting and crying through some of my poses, especially the restorative ones. I started using my savassana to actually just connect to my breathing, instead of letting myself run through my to-do list or stress list or any other list of craziness that tends to rocket around my head. Since starting to work at an amazing organization that teaches, among other things, mindfulness meditation as a spiritual connection practice, I’ve toyed around with the idea of starting a real meditation practice daily, but for now, I generally localize it to my savassana. But it’s been really wonderful, and since being more mindful in my day to day life was one of my new year’s resolutions, I also get to feel like I’m making progress toward a goal.

One of the most important parts of yoga has been setting an intention at the beginning of every class. When I first started getting back into yoga, my intentions were basically “get through the class without dying and/or falling over in a super embarrassing way”, but as I’ve kept going, I’ve ended up with two intentions that tend to make it into most of my classes: self-compassion and reconnection.

Living with a chronic pain disorder gives me a weird relationship with my body. Being in constant pain means that I’m always aware of my body–it’s pretty much impossible not to be–but I don’t always feel close to or connected to it. Sometimes, I feel like my body is something heavy that I have to drag around. While I’ve tried to take time to thank my body for what it can do instead of focusing on the ways it limits me, it’s an ongoing challenge to do that on a regular basis. Setting an intention at the beginning of class to reconnect with my body–to feel what it’s feeling without passing judgment; simply recognizing where my body is telling me it’s reached a limit and acknowledging it for going as far as it could–has been eye-opening for me because it’s given me space to sit, willingly and purposefully, with my body several times a week for at least an hour: not judging, not frustrating, not grumbling, just connecting and acknowledging.

And it’s…it’s been good. Not quite life-changing, and not quite automatic yet, but good. Meaningful.

In the spirit of reconnecting, I’ve been trying to spread that intention through the rest of the aspects of my life. For a while at the beginning of the year, and again when we moved to New York, I was doing a pretty good job of seeing friends regularly, keeping in touch with family, reaching out to folks I didn’t see often, etc. In the past few months, a lot of that has fallen by the wayside. It’s hard to know for sure if that’s because my commute is longer and I’m just too tired, if I’m mentally exhausted by all the transitions, if it’s just too darn hot for that kind of nonsense, or some combination of the three, but I’ve definitely lost track of a lot of the goals I set for myself at the beginning of the year.

So this month, I’ve been trying to move forward–or go back, I suppose–to the habits that I’ve been trying to build over the course of this year and this happiness project. I’ve been connecting with friends–grabbing a coffee, keeping a monthly breakfast date, doing virtual planner decorating dates, keeping my family group text amused with occasional memes and YouTube videos, even going to a few shows. And even though my inner introvert tends to hate it (kind of a lot, merp), it’s clear–just from my mood and the way I’ve felt at the end of the day–that it’s been worth it.

 

Still–I can’t do it every day. I’m still finding myself running into mental roadblocks with spontaneous plans that throw off my original routine (and things like weather and spontaneous friend/family events have made that a pretty constant reality over the last few weeks, grumble grumble), but the warm fuzzies of spending time with my friends and feeling human connections rather than isolating myself in my apartment has been worth it.

There are some things that I’m still working to reconnect with. My writing time has fallen by quite a bit (hence my very neglected blog), I’ve been journalling less, reading less. But slowly, that’s changing too. I hit the library this week and picked up two new books. I finished the first draft of the novel that I’ve been working on since November (TAKE THAT, WRITER’S BLOCK), and I’m starting some new stories. Slowly, slowly, I’m reconnecting to the the things that bring me joy.

 

When you set an intention for a yoga practice, it’s not meant to be an intention set for the rest of your day or week or life. It’s just that: an intention for your practice, whether that practice is a morning sun salutation, an hour-long class, or a full-day workshop. But you’re setting it for yourself, for the moment you’re in, the body you’re in, the space where you are. So that’s what I’m doing, one moment at a time: setting an intention to reconnect.

One moment at a time.

settling in (happiness project, part 6)

Remember all those posts I made over the last few months about my upcoming move, and all the related feelings and freakouts and meltdowns?

Well, it happened!

In the past few weeks, Husband and I have completed the first leg of our move from the boonies of Western Massachusetts to the suburbs of New York City. Needless to say, it’s been a pretty big adjustment–we’ve gone from a single-family house on a quiet dead-end street to a small apartment in a large complex on a busy road. My commute has gone from a five-minute drive to a forty-minute train followed by a twenty-five minute walk, which, for obvious reasons, means I’ve had to make some drastic changes to my morning and evening routines to accommodate a much longer journey to and from work. That means, to my sadness, less time for writing and internet-ing in both the morning and evening, and, since I’m now held to a train schedule, much less flexibility in that routine from day to day. The last few weeks have been a pretty constant jumble of adjusting to new routines, unpacking, organizing, hanging, decorating, and rearranging. It’s been an adventure.

And the best part? In just over two months, we’re going to do it all again when we move into the housing that Husband’s job provides for us starting in June. Woo!

A few people–okay, a lot of people–have asked us why we’ve bothered to put as much time and energy into settling into our current apartment, given that we’ll only be there about three months. And honestly, it’s a fair question. Unpacking clothes and kitchenware is one thing; hanging artwork and arranging books feels like creating a much more “permanent” space.

For me, though, creating something that feels like a permanent home is what makes this process doable. Husband and I have moved approximately a bajillion times since we’ve been living together (okay, so maybe it’s more like seven, but still!), and one of the things that I’ve realized in the process of all these moves is that I need to feel like I’m home, not in a temporary or uncertain space. The extent to which I’ve been able to do that over our different moves has varied, from having only a few of our books and pictures to being able fully furnish and settle into a home for over a year, and I’m fully aware that it’s been a privilege to be able to make each place we’ve lived feel at least slightly like ours for the time that we’ve been there.

As nice as it is to stay in a hotel for a few nights, most of us wouldn’t want to live in one if we can avoid it, and the reason why is the same reason that college students decorate rooms they’ll only inhabit for four months at a time and kids at overnight summer camps set up their bunks with pictures of home and bring along a favorite pillow or stuffed animal. There’s just something about being surrounded by familiar things that brings a sense of peace and serenity that we just don’t have in temporary spaces, and those feelings of serenity are crucial to our brains’ ability to adjust after a major transition. Hundreds of thousands of dollars have been spent on studying transitional and resettlement traumas–a number I suspect will go up over the next few years, as millions of refugees are resettled across the globe–as sociologists and psychologists and other social scientists examine the ways in which people create homes in new places and work to find familiarity in the unfamiliarity. From a less academic and extreme perspective, online outlets from Buzzfeed to Reader’s Digest have put together articles (listicles, whatever) about adjusting to a new place and making a new location feel like “home.” Clearly, this is a pretty common phenomenon, which shouldn’t be surprising: the average American can expect to move 11.4 times in their adult lifetime. No wonder we’re looking for as many ways as possible to make the process smoother.

I’m a confident enough person to be able to admit that I don’t, and will probably never, have the temperament needed to enjoy moving. And I’m okay with that. This happiness project has never been about changing my core personality, but rather understanding the ways I can change my perspectives and needs to increase the amount of happiness I feel on a day to day basis. I’ve made my peace with the fact that my moves will require more work because I’m determined to make my space–however temporary–feel like home as quickly as possible. This particular time, this has worked out in our favor: Husband and I went from “no unpacked boxes” to “everything unpacked, art on the walls, internet installed, fresh-baked bread cooling on the counter” in a week and a half. It helps that by this point we’re pretty much a relocation dream team, but in all honesty? Knowing that we’re getting damn good at this makes the fact that we’ve got yet another move coming up in June feel a little less scary.

But for now, at least, I have an unpacked apartment that feels like home.

And at the end of the day, even if we didn’t set everything up right away, I know that sometimes, happiness isn’t the stuff you have in your home, but who you share it with.

a grateful letter to my body

Dear Body,

So, the last few days have been pretty rough on all of us. After we went on our Super Fun Big City Adventure last week, you basically crashed. Friday to Sunday was a non-stop disaster of exhaustion, poor sleep at night and constant inability to stay awake during the day, bone-deep physical weariness, emotional and mental fog, and delirious stumbling around the house unable to really think, hold things, eat real food, or drink more than water. It was a pretty miserable experience all around.

I guess I should probably apologize. I put you through a hell of a ringer last week–we did a lot of travel in a seriously short amount of time, and you don’t tend to do super well with travel, late nights, lots of walking, and huge amounts of physical/mental engagement and stimuli happening all at once. That’s my bad, and you were a champ for putting up with all that craziness. I knew your limits, and I pushed you past them. I’m sorry for that.

We’re on the mend now, or getting there. We had another rough night’s sleep last night, but I think we broke five hours, which is pretty great. And we even managed to get a cup of coffee into our system today, and had the mental energy to see our clients and even do some writing when we got home. Let’s keep our fingers crossed for decent sleep tonight!

Body, I want to express some gratitude to you. I don’t do that very often because I’m often so frustrated with you. We’re in our mid-twenties, what feels like it’s supposed to be the healthiest time of our life, and instead I often feel overwhelmed with irritation and frustration at my inability to travel, to run, to keep plans with friends, to tolerate certain fabrics and temperatures. But you are my body, the only one that I have, and even though you are often exhausted and in pain, I owe you my thanks.

Thank you, body, for the ability you give me to experience the world. You are the gateway of my senses, and without you I would not be able to see the smiles of my friends and family, to hear music or laughter, to touch my dog’s soft fur, to smell freshly brewed coffee in the morning, to taste cool, sweet water. Thank you for being the conduit through which I feel the sun on my face and the wind in my hair.

Thank you, body, for carrying me through my life. Sometimes our steps are slow, sometimes they are halting, sometimes we feel like we are not moving at all, but nonetheless we are taking steps. Thank you for the press of my feet to the ground, holding me to the earth and keeping me moving.

Thank you, body, for helping me to learn my limits. Your warnings let me know when I am pushing myself too hard, and you tell me, clearly, when I have crossed a line. I don’t listen to you like I should, and I owe you better.

Thank you, body, for being my ally in this adventure of health and illness. We have changed so very much together, and have sometimes fought against one another, angry and frustrated and sad and frightened, but I think that we are learning, slowly, to find a peace. Thank you for continuing to teach me and guide me, even when I don’t listen to your lessons.

Thank you, body, for holding my heart, that has received so much love. Thank you for my hands, for helping me to write stories into existence from nothing more than dreams, for allowing me to craft the narrative of my life in pen and ink. Thank you for my toes, which have wiggled in sand and mud and grass and water. Thank you for my arms, which for all their aches have nonetheless held so many embraces. Thank you for my back, which for all its pain allows me to carry my head and my mind. Thank you for my head, where my migraines and fogs and confusions still make room for thoughts and dreams and questions and goals.

Thank you, body, for growing with me. Thank you for your ability to change and heal and endure.

Thank you for being mine.

Love,

Shelly

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embracing vulnerability (happiness project, part 5)

Fairly early on in my graduate social work program, our program director sat down with my cohort and talked to us, pretty frankly, about the burnout problem. Some fairly ridiculous percentage (like, 21-67% across multiple studies) of mental health workers report high rates of emotional exhaustion and cynicism with the profession, leading to increases in anxiety, depression, and stress-related health issues. She told us, gently but frankly, that in her experience, a significant number of MSW grads end up leaving the social work field, or at least direct service work, within five years.

I remember, distinctly, looking around that room of bright-eyed, bushy-tailed MSW students, and thinking to myself, “Okay, some of us are gonna burn out, but I’m not going to be one of them.”

What’s that saying about famous last words?

When I chose social work as a field, I knew I was getting into a profession with long hours, low pay, and high rates of compassion fatigue. I’ve written before about the struggle I’ve had balancing my own need for self-care with the desire to spend all of my emotional energy on my clients, and in all honesty, it’s something I’ve struggled with throughout my career–and probably always will, regardless of whether I’m in direct service work or not. It’s just another part of who I am, much to my husband’s chagrin.

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But as convinced as I was at the beginning of my graduate program that I was not going to be one of the social workers who burned out in their first five years, I’m beginning to admit that maybe I am. It’s impossible for me to ignore that in the year that I’ve been in clinical work, my health issues–both physical and mental–have gotten worse, my stress levels have skyrocketed (despite pretty significant work over the last six months on self-care routines), and overall, may happiness has just decreased. I love my clients, and in many ways I feel deeply fulfilled by the work that I do. But I also feel tired, frustrated, angry, sad, fiercely furious with the social systems I’m forced to work within, and overall, exhausted.

So, as I recently announced to my work colleagues–and therefore now all of you readers–it’s time for a change.

Besides being one of my absolute least favorite things on the planet just on principle, being on the job hunt means exposing myself to one of my biggest anxiety triggers: putting my own future in someone else’s hands.

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I spend a lot of time hanging out with my therapist and talking about why this is such a big deal for me, and in all honesty, we’ve been digging around in it for awhile. We’ve spent a while going back and forth talking about how much I love to plan and control things (case in point), and how job searching is basically impossible to plan or control, because all you’re doing is sending cover letter after cover letter out into the void, hoping like hell someone will send you an email.

(Also, can I just say that whoever started the “due to the amount of responses, we will only contact you if you are invited to interview” thing is an absolutely terrible person? Because seriously. Send a batch “rejection” form email if you have to, but leaving everyone else in limbo is awful, and I hate that it’s become the norm.

Anyway. I digress.)

Wrapping my mind around just why it is that this job search thing makes me so uncomfortable–beyond just the aforementioned frustrating limbo–has been an ongoing challenge over the past month or two that I’ve been engaged in this process. I’ve probably spent two or three days’ (or at least nights’) worth of time trying to connect to the feelings of fear and anxiety that come up every time I think about writing another cover letter or sending another email, and each time, I find myself back at the beginning of my thoughts, deciding that this must just be some kind of personal failure.

But help comes through in weird places.

In my post about New Years’ Resolutions, I talked about wanting to make an effort to watch one TED Talk each month. I spent most of January vaguely scrolling through the TED site from time to time and occasionally bookmarking things to maybe watch later, and ended up scraping in right under the wire last night, thanks to a list of 5 Must-See TED Talks for Social Workers that a friend of mine shared on Facebook. The one I picked was “The Power of Vulnerability” by Brené Brown, and you guys, I don’t say this much, but it was actually life-changing.

 

In her talk, Brown talks about the biggest barrier to human connection is shame–something that each and every one of us feels at one time or another. Shame is that deep, emotionally exhausting feeling of not [blank] enough–not good enough, not smart enough, not worthy enough. And that to overcome this shame, what we need to do is allow ourselves to be vulnerable; “to allow ourselves to be seen, really seen,” in order to embrace connection. And that, of course, is absolutely fucking terrifying.

So Brown set out to do some research, to deconstruct shame and kick vulnerability’s ass, and to figure out just what it is that separated the people who were able to overcome shame and believe themselves worthy of love and happiness from those who couldn’t. What she found, at the heart of the matter, was this:

“There was only one variable that separated the people who have a strong sense of love and belonging and the people who really struggle for it. And that was, the people who have a strong sense of love and belonging believe they’re worthy of love and belonging. That’s it. They believe they’re worthy.”

Brown wanted to dig deeper, so she sat down with her interviews and did a more in-depth analysis to see what those people with a belief in their worthiness had in common. And she found four factors. The first three, I thought, seemed to make pretty perfect sense. They had a sense of courage, or as Brown phrased it, “the courage to be imperfect.” They were compassionate to themselves. They had connection.

But the last factor, to both Brown’s and my chagrin, was this: they embraced, wholeheartedly, vulnerability. They knew that in life, vulnerability was a necessary, if uncomfortable, emotion–necessary for connection, necessary for learning, necessary for growth.

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Brown’s reaction, and mine, was essentially this:

What the hell, research?!

(It was at about this point in the video that I realized that Brown and I would probably get along really well.)

I’m not going to recap the entire video, because you should really watch it–please, please watch it–but I will tell you what I really took away from it. Vulnerability, as awkward and stomach-churning and anxiety-producing as it is, is something that we must connect with if we are to connect with all of the emotions that come with growth and progress. When we close ourselves off from vulnerability in order to avoid the painful feelings that sometimes come with it–fear, anxiety, disappointment–we also lose out on happiness, on personal growth, on excitement.

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When I meet with my clients and they bring an uncomfortable feeling into the room–depression, grief, worry, pain–I ask them to spend a moment sitting with that feeling. I ask them where they feel it in their bodies, where they carry it–in their shoulders, in their chest, in their belly? I ask them to connect with the feeling and allow themselves to feel it, rather than instinctively away, because listening to those feelings is part of the process of understanding them. But doing this for myself has always been something I’ve recoiled against, preferring instead to press past vulnerability and project an air of surety or calm.

It may seem strange to bring vulnerability into my happiness project, but the more I think about it, the more I begin to understand that embracing vulnerability is a critical part of practicing happiness. Where my clients need to connect to the feelings they bring into my office, as I prepare to leave that office I need to connect to the vulnerability of allowing others to control where I go next. I need to lean into my discomfort, not push it away, and only through that discomfort and vulnerability will I be able to reach out to opportunities.

As uncomfortable as it is, I don’t know where the next step in my career will be. But I know that vulnerability is part of the journey.

And, strangely, I’m excited to start.