What is resilience?
This is a question I have asked myself, repeatedly, for the past five years or so.
More time has passed than I realised, since I fell ill not long after my graduation (eventually diagnosed as fibromyalgia), which started a slippery slope down to one of the more trying times in my life thus far.
Falling ill forces you to take stock of your priorities.
And seeing a very good psychologist, I believe, was one of the best things that came out of being ill.
See, we didn't just talk about coping mechanisms to deal with having a chronic (read: incurable) illness and how to come to terms with that. She taught me real life skills: how to set healthy boundaries with friends and loved ones, the value of self-care, recognising and managing negative thought spirals, how to cope with stress, and a myriad other things.
Maybe some of you were lucky enough to have learnt or acquired these skills in your upbringing or whilst growing up, but I think that is very dependent on your environment, your education, your family background, even culture and race. But many others have not managed to learn these skills easily or early on, and are all the poorer for it.
The years when I was struggling, undiagnosed, wasn't a time of resilience for me. In many ways I was very young emotionally, raw, defensive and hyper sensitive, and so easily hurt by other peoples' judgement of me.
I was a doormat. It was so easy for people to take advantage of my squishy insides, the people pleaser, the one who was always looking for approval and for love. Often, I got dragged into others' arguments and tried to play the peacekeeper, only to be the one left in conflict when everyone else had made up. My absolute loyalty to my friends was sometimes taken for granted at best; at worst, used against others. I had no healthy boundaries, and even my career path of choice had been decided on because of outward approval of something I said when I was seven years old.
So the exact opposite of that was what I tried to do. I became very hard and unyielding, and in trying to become strong, became brittle instead. I made sure to hide everything away that could be construed as a weakness. People saw me as remote and unapproachable, and I was.
That wasn't courage. It isn't strength.
Being able to keep yourself open to others, to connections, to be vulnerable, and yes, open to judgement - that is courage, and it's taken me years to be brave enough to open back up my shell and let others take a peek inside.
But perhaps the worst betrayal, is actually from within. When your body is the one betraying you, it is easy to despair. There's anger, there's depression, and a lot of anxiety that comes about from not being able to do things that others take for granted. There's social isolation from not being able to keep up with your old social life, or from the friends that part ways as your priorities change.
I remember in particular, this one young man, who bonded with me over our ambitions and dreams. We hung out so much in college, we were practically inseperable. It wasn't just the one incident that drove a wedge between us, of course; the fading of friendships is often just many small little things that start to part you from each other over time.
But the one standout moment that remains sharp in my memory is when he said, "After all, any girlfriend would want her boyfriend to put his career as the first priority, right?"
Going to a kneejerk reaction to agree, I suddenly remembered almost passing out from the pain in the middle of the street whilst grocery shopping. I thought of how I'd cried and asked my partner to come pick me up from work because I was just depressed and didn't know how to explain to my first workplace that spending half an hour in the loo multiple times a day was just my new normal. It's funny that it's the smallest things in the greater scheme of things that are often the straw that breaks the camel's back. And passing wind constantly for weeks in the middle of an open plan office was just more embarrassment than I could bear at that point in time.
And I said to him, "No."
"No, I'd like my partner to be able to put me first, before his work, and before his career."
I wanted my partner to be there for me if I had to be hospitalised again. I didn't want him to be on work trips overseas if I was ill. Because I had become such a recluse at that point, he was the only one I felt could, if not truly understand me, but at least the one I didn't feel like I had to make explanations to and put on a good face for when I was hiding my pain. I don't believe I ever explained this to my friend, it was just this jumble of thoughts and emotions in my head at that point.
He just looked at me, in a way that said he didn't understand who I had become. And said simply, after that lengthy pause, "I'm lucky my girlfriend doesn't think that way, then".
We didn't have so many conversations again after that, and slowly continued to drift apart.
Yet now, 13 years after I initially fell ill, I can say with great conviction that it was the best thing that ever happened to me. Falling ill made me take stock of many things. In fact, it has changed the direction of my life entirely.
Choosing this career, was probably something impossible for me before. There were so many things I wanted to try, and I was in love with the appearance of corporate life. Getting sick really drove home that my core values weren't about work after all.
How would I be able to take care of my family if one day, I couldn't continue working anymore?
How would I be able to take care of MYSELF, when 90% of my income was being spent on healthcare and medical bills?
How would I be able to take the time to do the things good for my health, like growing and cooking natural food, rest and light exercise, when I collapsed for the rest of the week after only working part time three days a week?
Although today, my fibromyalgia and chronic fatigue is really well managed, I work normal hours in my business, and life goes on as normal for the most part, that's all in thanks to the path I took to get here.
Today, because I have less energy than other people, I do more efficient and effective work than anyone else. I'm an asset to my organisation, I know my strengths, and I know how to use them. I can get more done in six hours than some people do in 18.
Today, I am not hurt by the little things anymore. More relationships were broken in those first few years of being ill than most people have lost in 10 years. I know people come and go, but the good ones stay. Good friends aren't those you spend the most time with, but those who understand that life gets in the way sometimes, but make all effort to be there for you when you need them. Good friends don't have to agree with you all the time, nor like the same things you do, they just need to like you.
Today, I have learnt how to build better relationships, and my connections to my family and friends are all the better for it. Communication and conflict management is no longer scary, and I can more often take a step back from anger, and look at how to solve the problem instead of becoming part of the problem. I'm one of the best people to handle a crisis, I can remain calm and level headed when everyone else is in panic mode.
Today, I have experienced a lot more life than others the same age. Gossip rarely bothers me. The thoughts and judgements of others are only of interest when I think I can learn from them and improve myself. I have confidence in myself, my decisions, and my self-worth. I'm making life decisions that will serve me at 50 years old, instead of only 3 years ahead.
And when you have this clarity and this confidence, the next thing you can do, is to give back to others.
I have so much appreciation for a myriad of people I have encountered in my life:
The lovely lady bosses at the hospital who really gave me back my self-confidence when I started working again after being sick for so long. They are role-models I aspire to emulate when I meet someone who has been so beaten down by life that they cannot see how powerful they really are. I want to be able to lift these people up, like they did once for me.
The friends I wasn't really close to but lent me a listening ear when I needed to vent anyway, because they were generous and kind. From them I learnt to look at myself, and instead of criticizing others for not matching my ideals of friendship, I learnt to see what other people understood as a love language, and understand that I myself have also disappointed others before. I learnt to be kind.
The immature young kids who I spent a lot of time and emotional effort in helping in their personal lives and with personal goals, but who immediately turned their back on me in the first conflict. You taught me that generosity was well and good, and should not be extended with the view of receiving in return. You taught me to be humble.
Yet, you also showed me that time is a finite, precious resource, and I can only mentor a handful seriously, and they should be the people who want it the most. To give them the best, I need to reserve my resources so I still have my best to give.
You see, we are all scarred.
And yet in the act of patching up my scars with gold, I've remade myself into a vessel that is stronger, of great beauty, that is unique.
Are you ashamed of your scars, or do they make you feel unique and empowered?
