Never Worry Alone

On a Tuesday evening about a month before the presidential election, I get onto Zoom for a training on how to drive voters to the polls. I’ve been pretty much freaking out all day: worried and jittery about what is happening in our country.

My first surprise is that there are more than 200 people on this Zoom webinar. Two hundred people from all over the country on this random Tuesday night.

My second surprise is that the training is excellent. The trainers are clear, well organized, and systematic. They go slowly through the material and repeat things so we don’t get lost in the series of steps and forms and apps. After 45 minutes, I am all set up and know what to do next.

The third surprise is that they then offer breakout rooms for questions. They have rooms for questions about using the technology, being a dispatcher, and helping in other ways. I have something I’m wondering about, so I hopped into the General Questions room.

There were dozens and dozens of people waiting with their “Zoom hands” up. The trainer is kindly and clearly answering each one. I don’t even put my hand up for a while. I just watch this parade of people of all colors and ages. One is a 17-year-old who wants to drive people to the polls he can’t yet vote in. Many are folks from blue states who are traveling to Pennsylvania or Arizona or Georgia to drive voters. As I watch every face, listen to every voice, I get calmer.

As I calm down, I remember the adage, “Never worry alone.”

It’s a favorite reminder of Dan Harris, author of the book Ten Percent Happier and host of the podcast of the same name. He says,

“I first heard this expression from Dr. Robert Waldinger, who is in charge of … the Harvard Study of Adult Development. It’s the longest running research project in the history of science.

“For nearly 90 years, scientists have tracked several generations of families in the Boston area, with the goal of determining what are the factors that increase both lifespan and health span.

“Turns out, the most important variable is not sleep, exercise, or diet. It’s the quality of your relationships. Stress is what kills us, and relationships can help us mitigate stress.”

It’s not a huge shock to hear this advice from a mindfulness/self-help/meditation guy. But I’ve also heard it from a neurosurgeon. Neurosurgeons are notorious rocks of confidence and accomplishment, yet this amazing guy tells compelling stories about times when he has been overwrought with worry about a patient and calls a colleague. He steadfastly encourages us to reach out in these situations and never worry alone.

The more worried you are, the more important it is to reach out. (Photo: Rebecca George Photography)

Sometimes the internal experience of our anxieties drives us underground, has us pulling into ourselves. Perhaps counterintuitively, this is the exact time to pick up the phone or ask someone to walk or jump on a Zoom.

When you find yourself buckling under the weight of worry — whether it’s about the state of democracy or the prognosis of your patient — never worry alone. Even just on a regular Tuesday, instead of stewing or doomscrolling, find someone to help you carry it.

Broccoli Lies

Once upon a time, I was a lay leader at the Charlottesville Unitarian Universalist church. It was the custom then for the minister to take summers off from preaching and in their stead, the lay leaders took turns giving the Sunday sermons.

I loved doing it. I loved telling stories, inviting inquiry, and being part of a community of kindness. The first time, though, was a rocky mess.

My first sermon was called The Lies We Tell Ourselves and in it I offered a few common ways we stop ourselves, talk ourselves out of what we want to do, and generally get in our own way unnecessarily. Since many of these lies fly under the radar, I suggested that by supporting and encouraging each other, we could dissolve them and let them go.

Just before I stood up to speak, the congregation sang a one of my favorite hymns. Music is my kryptonite. The hymn hit me right in the feels; I got teary and my throat went tight.

These are, not surprisingly, suboptimal conditions for speaking in public.

I delivered the whole thing in a raggedy, almost-but-not-quite-crying voice. I was flushed with emotion and embarrassment and sweat. I hardly remember any of it.

Despite the minor trauma of the experience, one of the Lies I shared in the sermon has stuck with me for more than 20 years: The Broccoli Lie.

A Broccoli Lie is something that we think we don’t like and yet we’ve stuck with out of habit or fear. Maybe you had some boiled broccoli when you were 5 and it tasted bad to you. Now you’re 45 and you still won’t touch those green trees. Because once bitten, 40 years shy, right? But what if you got curious and tried it roasted or in a salad or with cheese?

It’s not just about food, of course, it could be about anything that we’ve written off for ourselves based on limited experience, fear, and habit. It could be your knee jerk reaction to anything: playing games, going to parties, having sex a different way, wearing lipstick...anything.

Busting a Broccoli Lie is about curiosity, not recklessness. If you’re allergic to shellfish, don’t eat it. If you’ve been in a traumatic situation, make choices that keep you safe physically and emotionally. This is not about throwing ourselves into things that are bad for us but rather getting curious about the many things we all do or don’t do just because that’s the way we do or don’t do them.

Recently, on the Ten Percent Happier podcast, Dan Harris talked with Robin Roberts about optimism and our internal dialog. One of her suggestions was to notice how we talk to ourselves and check out if any of that dialog is simply out of habit. “I never get what I want” or “I’m not smart or creative” or “I don’t wear shorts,” might be an old 8-track tape that is running simply because you’ve never thought to switch it out.

How to Know If You’re Telling A Broccoli Lie

1. Slow down.

   If someone suggests something (or you have a thought about something) and you have a quick automatic response — either NO or YES — slow down. Pause. Breathe. Notice any sensations in your body. Get curious about whether your answer is a habit.

2. What’s underneath?

   From this curious state, ask yourself what’s under the surface of your answer. What’s the story you’re telling? Is it really a hard NO or YES or is this your well-worn pattern? (Read about a time when I uncovered an old story that was driving my actions here!)

3. Is there another way?

   Maybe you find that your answer really is a hard NO or YES that feels right and true. If so, that’s great information and good to know. If not, if the underpinnings of your response feel a little less clear, ask yourself if there is another way of approaching the situation. Could you just go to the party for 30 minutes? Could you wear long shorts? Could you put some cheese on that broccoli?

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The thing about Broccoli Lies is that they are often so old that we don’t even realize we’re telling them to ourselves. We just get in the Broccoli Situation and default to what we’ve always thought, said, or done. It takes some courage and awareness to face the Broccoli. It is an endeavor that asks for gentleness, curiosity, and compassion and one that can deliver expanded experiences, new connections, and the chance to rewrite our story.

[AND if you are ever giving a sermon (or a toast or a presentation), talk to Kate Bennis (and read her newsletter). She is a genius for helping us speak authentically and effectively.]

The Cost of Comparison

Hurt is hurt, and every time we honor our own struggle and the struggles of others by responding with empathy and compassion, the healing that results affects all of us. ~ Brené Brown, Atlas of the Heart

There were times – many many times – in the process of healing my broken fifth metatarsal that I struggled. Like, twisted-up-in-packing-tape kind of struggle: frustrated, confined, angry at everything and everyone.

Struggle often feels like heaviness in my heart and tightness in my belly, a narrowness of vision and a shallowness of breath. Not long after recognizing that yes, I’m suffering and struggling right now, however, my mind veers off to those whose situation is much worse than mine.

The person with the more traumatic, long-standing injury.

The person with a life-threatening illness.

The one who lost a partner or whose nation was at war.

I roll my eyes at myself. Tell myself to get over it. Don’t be such a baby wah-wah.

Dr. Brené Brown calls this “comparative suffering” and she is not a fan.

In his wonderful new TED Talk, Ten Percent Happier author and podcaster Dan Harris suggests that by being kinder and more loving to ourselves, we are more able to offer that same kindness to others. My own experience concurs that when I am being tough and harsh with myself, when I bully myself into positivity, that spills over onto anyone around me. Be gentler with me, and I find myself extending that same gentleness to everyone.

The same is true for when I’m struggling. Instead of feeling my own pain and suffering, if I automatically compare myself with others (and chastise myself for being a whiny pants), I don’t build empathy for myself...or for anyone else.

So the first good reason to feel your own suffering is to build empathy for yourself and anyone else who is suffering (which is EVERYBODY).

What’s more, though, is that if we talk ourselves out of our pain, we never actually feel it. Which is something that sounds like a good idea but really isn’t.

As Brené Brown points out, “hurt is hurt,” pain is pain. If I don’t feel my own, it will go underground, lodge itself in me only to squirt out as rage or depression or a cross word. Instead, I can choose to allow myself to feel and identify whatever hurt I’m experiencing, no matter how small in comparison. If I choose to feel it, I am both processing and healing myself, and I’m building my empathy muscle so I can be fully with anyone in my sphere of connection.

Everybody struggles in one way or another. Everybody. Whatever hurt is hurting you, feel it and honor it. Resist the habit of comparison and shutting yourself down. When you open to your own tender, painful places, you make space not just for you but for everyone.

The Magic Words of Empathy: This Sucks

Half way through a month-long hiking and biking adventure with my beloved Frank, I broke my foot.

Again.

A year and a half ago it was my left 5th metatarsal. This time it was my right. This break is often called “the dancer’s break” so I guess this makes me some kind of super amazing double dancer. Or something.

We were with my husband’s enormous midwestern family when it happened. I was dancing in the grass with my second family. The weather was beautiful, the music was about summer and freedom. I felt seen and appreciated by these glorious, much-loved people. Then I felt a tiny wobble in my foot, a little pop … and I knew.

My foot was not the only thing that broke. My heart broke, too. And my spirit. The recovery from the first break was long and arduous and I was juuuust feeling that I had my body, my strength and my full movement back … and then this. I hobbled out of the Minneapolis Urgent Care clinic in a boot and on crutches…crushed. I felt embarrassed. Ashamed. Discouraged. Disheartened. Disappointed. Dis-spirited.

When we got back to the house full of family, I couldn’t bear to face them. With tears prickling my eyes, I crutched my way to collect what I needed to start cancelling things. Frank went into the house and gathered everybody around.

Minnesotans, the ones I know anyway, are deeply kind people. They focus on the positive even when things are wretched and miserable. Like when it’s winter for the seventh month in a row. Or when you break your foot in the middle of your vacation. They want things to be OK. Oh yah, for sure, they love a silver lining, donchaknow.

Frank knew this. And he knew it was too soon for silver linings. So he gathered everybody around. I wasn’t there, of course, but I imagine he said something like this.

Susan broke her foot. She feels terrible about it. All she really needs right now is empathy. We’ve learned from her last break is that empathy never starts with the words “at least.” Even if you see the silver lining or want to remind her of all the positive things that are happening, it will not help to tell her that. The magic words of empathy are “this sucks.” It may not seem like that’s enough to say and you may want to fill up the space with trying to fix it for her but trust me, “this sucks” is all she needs right now.*

Meanwhile, I skulked back into the house and started cancelling everything. Every single part of that was painful.

As I sat in the kitchen, upending all the excitement of the trip and cancelling all my classes, people started filtering in. First, my actor nephew from L.A. gingerly approached and said, “Susan. I’m so sorry this happened. This sucks.” Then my gentle brother-in-law put his hand on my shoulder and said, “This just sucks, Susan. I’m sorry.” My niece and nephew generously welcomed us to stay some extra days at their beautiful home. One by one, my family acknowledged what happened and simply was with me in it.

One by one, this lovely family tenderly looked me in the eye and said, Yes, this is a crappy thing that happened and I wish for you that it hadn’t. They didn’t try to help me see how it really wasn’t that bad or question my judgement about dancing barefoot in the grass. They didn’t pretend it didn’t happen or make a joke. As they spoke the magic words of empathy, I found myself feeling less devastated. I felt supported, embraced, loved, included.

The last time I broke my foot, I got “at leasted” a lot. And it helped me. It strengthened my empathy muscles. I feel more skillful talking to and being with people in their suffering. I learned what feels like support and what feels like abandonment. And now that the break is on the other foot, sitting in a kitchen with my next few months stretching into a mess ahead of me, I feel the amazing healing power of “this sucks.”

• We are wise people but we did not come up with this on our own. We’ve learned most of what we know about empathy from Brené Brown and we stole “this sucks” from Dan Harris. If you’re not sure what the difference between sympathy and empathy is, or you find yourself itching to find a silver lining, check out their work here and here.