There is something inside me lately that desperately wants to stay hidden. I can’t tell if it is a true need for the natural cocoon time of creation or the desire to stay small, to heed the call of expansion, this dance of when to push and when to pause and when to run towards the next thing. I trust more will be revealed but in the meantime I find myself running away from the arena of leadership, and still : I practice.
Last week I filmed a class with Skillshare about writing newsletters. I am seasoned at teaching but I had never taught to a camera in a room full of strangers without any real students present. The second we started my imposter syndrome set up camp in the back of my throat, making it hard to talk or think or share what I wanted to. This caught me off guard and I was not prepared for the emotional journey.
Everything that happened next feels like both a wild acid trip and a black out at the same time. I remember nothing and yet I remember everything in vivid detail. I want to tell you all about it and I want to never tell you it happened. I wish I had had my little tinctures on hand or remembered that breathing was a thing, alas.
We got to the part about money. How much money my newsletter makes, how much it has grown, sharing with complete transparency in an effort to show other writers and artists what is possible. But in that moment, in front of my new stranger collaborators1, in front of myself, with swarming feelings of - I don’t deserve this - I started to choke up and said my most popular sentence “I feel like I’m going to cry”
Justin, the saint of an executive producer/director/magician/heaven sent friend of a leader, said through his zoom screen in San Francisco : you can cry. And voila, the tears came rushing. Then the feeling of - cool now I look like an ungrateful idiot who is crying because they’re good at something. What sort of mental illness is this? Then I cried harder. I cried for everything everyone before me couldn’t be and I cried for everything I didn’t feel like I deserved and then I cried harder because I couldn’t believe what a stupid baby I was for crying.
I cried because I wanted to be having a joyful and confident time and instead I was crying. I cried because I don’t want to live thinking I don’t deserve money or success. I cried because the resistance to my growth hurts so much more than growing. I cried because I wish the people I loved had the same growth that I’ve experienced, and so - this is why I tell them how I did it.
It’s what I make a podcast, and teach, and share as generously and accessibly as I can. It’s why I write a newsletter and why I write books.
Even so, it all makes me want to hide away and never be heard from again. Not even the crying but the embarrassment of - how can I be a teacher when I don’t think I deserve the amount of money I make? Unlocking this is important and valuable to me as a service to myself and my students, a process I have been deeply ingrained in with my therapist and other outside help.
The whole time I am teaching the class I am thinking - these people think I am an idiot. (To be clear they were giving no indication of this) But I was convinced that I was in a room of people who didn’t like me and thought what I was saying was dumb.
At the end they all shared with me how much they want to make their own newsletters, how inspiring the class was, how great I was at teaching. And yet there I was buried in my own nest of low self esteem. My brain playing tricks on me, little Mar without their tools and their needs not being met crawling through and getting mixed up with adult Mar.
This morning I sit here and think - I should be writing about my creative practice or something of greater benefit but instead I write about crying into rough paper towel while a film crew surrounds me with nothing but love and support while I assume they’re annoyed with me. Tomorrow we’re going to the Monarchs game and it’s pride night and nothing is more correct than that and yet still I think, how will I relax? How will I embrace not always working and trust that I deserve to have fun?
What I am really here to tell you today is : your brain might be lying to you.
Your brain might be telling you everyone in the room thinks you’re a big dumb stupid fake artist who no one likes, when in fact you are beloved and celebrated or even just in the midst of a neutral vibe. No one is thinking about you as much as you think they are. They’re worried about if they’re good at their job too.
I went to the Bonny Doon concert right after I finished teaching and saw John. I told him about how I was feeling after the whole thing and he looked at me and said - gosh Mar think of all The DAAC shows, all the Have Company workshops, all the times you busted ass for years and years to get to where you are now. Leave it to a gentle bird like ex husband to reflect back to you how deep of a commitment you’ve held to prosperity, and how it has been a slow and wild ride to get here.
I told a few other friends how I felt after the experience and every single artist I told completely related to a very shared feeling of despair : that our jobs don’t matter. That being an artist is just making silly little things and gosh how embarrassing. And yet, we can’t seem to turn away from the process or the output. May this serve you in knowing you are not alone in feeling the vastness of not mattering. And may you feel comforted in the very fact I will tell you : this is not true. We all fill a role in the ecosystem of creation and action, and what you do is so needed. I cannot stress this enough.
I don’t have a solution other than to keep practicing. We keep teaching and we keep writing and we keep painting and we keep designing and we keep dancing and we keep singing. We must. In spite of even the darkest feelings toward ourselves, this is the way forward. To keep practicing being seen.
Listen to the newest episode of Common Shapes with
“I wouldn’t describe myself as an activist or an organizer. I think of myself as a person who has this long, ingrained practice of scrutinizing power. And that feels like it’s my work.”
This conversation is so important to me and I know will support you in any practice you do. Whether it is art, care taking, body work, service provider, crafter, woodworker, laborer, doctor. The way Tamara talks about tending to their own art practice and community is exactly how I strive to show up in my own life. I left the experience of interviewing them with clear action steps to apply to my own life and know you will feel the same. In the feelings of uselessness we can all run up against - this conversation is a hand to pull you out of that and into the world you want to see.
A portion of June’s paid subscriptions go towards the Grand Rapids Pride Center
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The Artist’s Way Book Study has kicked off and intentions have been set. We are in the midst of Week One : Recovering a Sense of Safety and I would love for you to join us by becoming a paid subscriber of the newsletter. Going through this book is the perfect way to remember you are not a big dumb stupid fake artist who no one likes :)
I can’t say thank you enough to Eden, Thaad, and everyone at Reel Clever Films who made me feel so incredibly safe, loved, and celebrated. If you’re in Detroit and need a production team for a project I cannot recommend them enough.