A few months ago, I was deeply immersed in the process of writing and refining my new book, when a friend asked me if I was finding the creative process itself to be therapeutic.
I hadn’t thought about this, and although I’d written through streams of tears at several points during the preceding months, I wasn’t sure how to answer the question. As I paused and reflected on it, one very notable thing came to mind: During the entire writing process, I was aware of, watching, and unraveling a deeply entrenched habit of mine that has at times been my undoing (both as a writer, and as a man): The impulse to prove myself. The impulse to prove myself right, better, smarter, more worthy, or in any other way superior to others. There is an insecure part of me that habitually wants to puff out its chest, and either knock others down or build itself up in a rather dubious way, to compensate for its deep sense of unworthiness.
I’ve had the extraordinary fortune of developing some awareness of this dynamic within myself over the years, and the book I was writing is itself an honest journey into the depths of it, so during my writing, I had a wonderful accountability to a bigger perspective and truth than the younger, less mature and more insecure part of me is connected to.
When I began writing, I scrawled a mantra on a piece of paper that I kept near my keyboard which said: You have nothing to prove, only love and beauty to share. Holding this intention near to me, the creative process became an exploration of a more honest, clear, and graceful way of expressing myself. There were a couple of motivations behind this: One, there is tremendous freedom and beauty in communicating from my authentic voice - the voice that does not need to pretend, posture, protect or hide its truth, but can shine from the beauty that it is, and be comfortable with all that it is not. Two, the insecure part of me is not a great writer - it’s narrow, closed-minded, harsh, and arrogant - so from a purely artistic or literary point of view, it’s preferable to find another well to draw from.
The insecure voice wants to prove a point, wants to be right and prove others wrong, all of which are more narrow, unkind, alienating, and defensive tendencies. My deeper, more authentic voice seeks to connect, not divide. It’s not in a rush to prove itself right or others wrong, it would rather share a laugh, have fun, and celebrate the common beauty and sanctity we all share and are participating in. It is less narrow in its world view, and relaxed enough to see the many shades of grey in our human experiences that my insecurity rushes to judge and label as good or bad.
The worst nightmares of my insecure self - being wrong, making mistakes, not understanding something, being imperfect, undesirable or different - are the very substance of life for the authentic voice - they are sources of laughter and learning rather than fuel for shame and self-hatred.
Because I contain both of these aspects of consciousness within myself, and I’m learning to integrate and navigate them wisely, the entire writing process was deeply therapeutic on this level (among others). This internal dance is something I’m learning to study and unravel every day - the old habits of acting from insecurity having become so well worn within my psyche over the years, that I seem to find new, deeper levels in me to stretch open constantly. It’s incredibly humbling. The insecure part of me that wants to be perfect and flawless absolutely hates this and sometimes feels flattened by it - the wiser, more authentic voice loves it and thrives on richness and adventure into the unknown it presents.
I know how intoxicating being right and proving others wrong can feel to my insecurity - it is a drug that I have feasted on and blurred my senses with (numbing both my crushing sense of vulnerability and my tender sense of empathy) a great deal over the years - and still find myself returning to almost by accident at times. For all the bluster and anger I can generate from that place, at its core is always weakness. As a writer, this comes across as hubris, arrogance, and general obnoxiousness. It can be fun and stir things up, that’s for sure, but it’s childish. As a man, this comes across as brittleness, frustration, and a feeling of being small, victimized, and needing to overcompensate for that.
While I still fall into this pattern regularly, when I notice that I’m reverting to that smaller version of being, and it feels like I’m trying to prove myself or be right in an emotionally unkind, graceless way, I like to remind myself that regardless of whatever superficial facts might be present in the heat of the moment, at an emotional or energetic level, if I’m coming from my shame and insecurity in a mean or toxic way, I’m wrong. And there’s no shame in that at all - to own and embrace it is an incredibly liberating thing.
So, in a world where many of our hearts can be closed off by feeling a need to be seen as right, perfect, or better than others, I’ll continue learning how to be comfortable with being none of the above - because it seems that is a place where a very special kind of freedom, empathy and grace lie. It’s a place where the heart opens, where love can be shared, and the depth and breadth of life can be seen, felt, and appreciated more fully.
Oh, and if you’re wondering how that book turned out - I’ll take this opportunity to plug it! How To Open The Heart: An Incredible Journey Into Vulnerability, Empathy, And The Transformation Of Consciousness is available now.