Failing My 2021 Goal: On Becoming Soft
Unbeknownst to most of you, each year (read: the last two) instead of setting New Year's goals, I choose a yearly theme; something to guide me, to remind me of the ways I want to grow.
In 2020, my theme was “Be intentional.” And despite many unintentional things about that year, I actually kept pretty well on theme. I took a few writing classes, allowing me to intentionally carve out space for creative writing even with the demands of grad school. It helped me remember who I am and want to be, showed me I can always have writing as a part of my life, and gave me a group of lovely new friends (hi ladies!). And after many months of debating, I finally made the decision to switch doctoral advisors, a terrifying but deliberate choice, setting my feet on a new path that I have been grateful for ever since.
But in the last few months of 2020, I noticed that, though my life was better, I was still carrying the hard shell I developed to survive those first three years of grad school (and heck, the years before that too). My usual tendency towards vulnerability and openness had calloused over, and I was turning more and more to sarcasm and deflection. And so I chose my 2021 theme: “Be soft.” (Just giving President Hinckley's Six Be's an update over here.) I also identified three practices I felt would help me become softer: patience, self-love, and boundaries.
When I look back at this year, it’s clear that I basically failed at this theme. I have not become softer, at least not in the way I envisioned. I haven't made a list of scriptures that mention softness or held to my self-love mantras or been able face difficult situations with newfound grace. If anything this year has left me tired and sad, retreating further into my shell. But there are things I learned this year about being soft. So I’m recording them here, in hopes they might help me, and maybe some of you, in an ongoing journey towards softness.
First, what do I mean by “soft”? I mean someone who is approachable, flexible, kind. Someone who makes people feel comfortable rather than self-conscious, who is generous even in the face of fear, pain or judgment. I do not mean someone who gives in to others or is afraid to push back. In an episode of her podcast, Brené Brown shares a quote from Roshi Joan Halifax that a whole-hearted person has a strong back, soft front and (Brené adds) a wild heart. She explains that such a person can have a soft front because of their strong back. That because of their internal sense of self-possession, they can afford to be approachable and generous to others.
Learning about this floored me. (Thanks Mom and Abi for the rec!) I realized that most of the time when I’m hard, unkind or dismissive, it’s because I don’t have a strong sense of self. Because I’m afraid that other people will take advantage of my generosity or mock me for my vulnerability. I assume a protective stance over my squishy middle, deflecting genuine bids for connection with sarcasm and bland assurances that “I’m fine.” This is why I think patience, boundaries and self-love are so vital to softness. They are ingredients for that strong back, a way to stabilize myself so I know that I will be ok, that I can be soft anyways.
And frankly, there has been a lot for me to pretend to be fine about this year. After 28 years of near perfect health (never even broke a bone!), my body decided to stop playing by the rules. Since April, I’ve gone through bouts of cardiac/respiratory symptoms and intense fatigue, unable to participate in the simple pleasures of going on a run or a long hike. Despite many tests and doctor visits, and more money that I wished to spend, answers have eluded me. Gratefully, I can function on a daily basis, and some activities like biking and rock climbing have become doable. Still, I don’t know why my body isn’t operating as it should. That simple fact terrifies me. But it has softened me in a way, like a meat hammer softens a steak. The repeated reminder that everything will not always work out and you won’t know why, has leant me a kind of necessary humility, as living a mortal, fragile life does to each of us in time.
By far the hardest area of my life to be soft about is dating (what my therapist and I sometimes call “the big one”). There are a lot of stories I have told myself over the years about why I remain unpartnered, usually revolving around me being too weird, too smart, or too unattractive for someone to want me. This is a tired hack I guess, and I know you’re all clamoring to tell me it’s untrue and the right guy just hasn’t come along yet and I’m such a catch, etc. etc. (But for real, I do appreciate it, y’all are the best.) It doesn’t help, as my single friends and I bemoan, that as an intelligent, independent woman, I’m not supposed to care about being single and to do so means that I have given up on the old “I don’t need a man to complete me” oath. (I don’t, but I do like being held.) This is why I love forever the scene in Greta Gerwig’s 2019 Little Women where Jo March decries people who think love is all a woman is fit for but ends by saying “I’m so lonely.” Yes! I want to stand up and yell. Both/and! Simply to admit that I am lonely (though frankly not unhappy to be unmarried, if you can wrap your head around that) feels like a radical act of softness I am unprepared to do most of the time, especially when it invites pity//condescension//unwelcome advice//blind dates from my partnered family and friends.
Also, for the record, the actual experience of going on dates or interacting with men I’m attracted to makes my back feel about as strong as a licorice rope. Historically, this has led me to either bend over backwards in self-abnegation or unleash the sharp claws of sarcasm, scratching us both. And though my humor does run through sarcasm, there comes a point when it is not an extension of myself but a front to hide behind, leading to false pretenses on all sides. (Ah ha! You might say. Your inability to treat yourself as a full human with power and needs is the real reason you are single! So perceptive, you!) But, as with my health problems, dating this year has worn me down. It’s not that I’ve chosen softness or strength so much as I could no longer continue with what I was doing. I was too tired, too spent from projecting a self I was not, from trying so hard to protect myself from potential pain. Exhaustion is a form of softness. Recognizing your breaking point is a type of strength.
So now it’s December. My year of softness is coming to a close. I guess sometimes you want to grow by your own efforts and energy. But sometimes, life happens and so you grow anyways. In the sage words of Sara Bareilles, everything changes.
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