Amy Swift Crosby

It’s hard to fully be yourself in any meaningful relationship when you have to be too careful – when there is even the slightest sensation of eggshells underfoot. Filtering oneself, whatever the degree, is not without cost. What I have noticed though is that eggshells are hard to spot in certain relationships. Crisis has a way of pointing out what couldn’t be seen before.

I once had a friend, a good friend, and business colleague, who played a huge role in my professional development. She brought me into opportunities that would shape my career and life, and over time became a big part of my day-to-day. But as much as I appreciated her support and promotion of my work, she was also unpredictable, emotionally erratic and had a fierce temper.

I learned to live with those edges because I cared about her, felt I owed her, and, logistically speaking, she was enmeshed in multiple aspects of my life. I chose my words carefully and handled myself with caution around her, and it became a dance I perfected. It was only years later that I began to see how much work all the tip-toeing and mind reading took. It’s hard to see the web you’re in when you’re in it. Now I know I was in a constant state of encouraging, soothing, reassuring or dodging bullets –  and it was exhausting.

One day she lobbed a ‘grenade’ over the fence…not only landing on me but on a lot of people in her orbit. It was the direct offensive that finally put the relationship into clear focus for me. Her outburst caused hurt feelings, professional setbacks and general bewilderment all around.

Her extreme actions allowed me to get “out” of a toxic situation, one that had long felt suffocating and fragile, without having to have a conversation. But I had no idea how deeply the dynamic impacted me until one day it was no longer there. I felt lighter and relieved.

I could have had the conversation, drawn the boundary or taken some proactive steps to address the issues more honestly, of course, but it really wasn’t until it was gone that I realized how much I was holding back. I’m not asserting that my approach is in any way evolved, but I do recognize the (very) human need to overlook behavior to save feelings.

Eggshells can cause a version of ourselves to emerge that we don’t much like, that could even feel tense/fake/compromised. I couldn’t see how much I adapted around her until I didn’t have to.

They also exist to signal landmines, even when we don’t know where those explosives are located. We fear stepping on them, at any time, anywhere, and as a result, move toward what feels like a safer trajectory. But in survival mode, we also lose something. Is it genuine expression? Is it truthfulness? Is it an ability to just be ourselves? Is it the opposite of intimacy — in the form of distance and protection?

There’s a difference between being sensitive, considerate and compassionate, and constantly worrying that you’ve ignited or wounded a person in some way. Worse is living in constant anticipation of it.

Knowing that difference can be a guide to the relationships we both cultivate and avoid. And to what we can no longer stand.

Funny thing about an eggshell — you can only remove one — with one.

If this metaphor is lost on you, what I mean is this… difficult relationships often require equally difficult conversations to effectuate change. And challenging dynamics are often only disrupted vis a vis a challenging incident that seems unwanted at first glance, but may be the straw that breaks the camel’s back…or pattern, in this case.

Empathy doesn’t feel exhausting.
Perpetual restraint…does.

When we hear the popularized term “holding space,” more often than not, it relates to something in the metaphysical sphere. But lately, when I apply the principle more literally, it offers interesting relevance in the real world. It’s especially true when conditions need to change, or the shape of something seems to be asking to evolve into its next incarnation, but I don’t know what to “do” about it.

On most Tuesday mornings, I take part in a morning dance rave at a nearby studio. It’s not a popular offering (yet) and, truth be told, at times I’ve been one of only two people in attendance.

I love the freedom, the darkness, the fact that despite the low headcount, the studio owner still gets up early to host it. Through this weekly event, she and I are both holding space, but in different ways:

She, by opening the doors, putting it on the schedule, turning on the music and turning down the lights; Me, by planning for it, and then showing up.

Taking it one step further, we’re both betting that something good will come from an open-ended question of sorts. With no agenda, only intention, it allows for answers, downloads and insights; about what, we don’t know ‘till we do it.  But it does require some trust and an adjustment of traditional expectations.
If I expected a crowded, mind-bending Burning Man experience that opened the door on a new quantum universe, I might be disappointed. If she expected a packed house and commensurate fees, she’d be equally bummed.

Because we’ve all been there.

You plan, you craft –  roll up your sleeves on a project, service, piece of work — and the applause is light at best, or at worst, inaudible.  Maybe you can point to a variety of reasons why, or not, but the takeaway is the same; zero bodies, dollars, likes, ROI…and seemingly little progress.

But…that’s what’s great about holding space for a thing; It’s an approach that takes time and practice, more than strategy and tactics. It’s adjacent to uncovering the answer, and less direct. But it’s surprisingly effective when you have that luxury to do it.

Taken further, I’m thinking of the people or circumstances you want to enter your life, the new energy, the answer, the opportunity — the right dynamic. Sometimes, all you can do is make room in your mind and schedule for those things to make an entrance – because nothing else seems right / clear / possible. You can take all the proscribed steps as well, and should. But just as meditation is often an exercise in not doing something, holding space is being there with intention and attention to see…what unfolds.

When we “hold”, we invite potential.
There’s stillness in it — that ironically, instigates movement.
It’s not proscriptive or instructed. It requires getting body and mind in one place – off-device, on-alert.

I don’t go into my dance rave asking for ideas, but the very act of free movement, with no teacher, no program or method, invites a certain cascade of thoughts that can form something worthwhile. I can’t predict it nor do I look for it.

It’s a parenthesis — with nothing inside (yet.)

January can often usher in a commitment to do it different or better, even to take on more, but with this drive often comes a dash of existential angst. And, if you happen to experience the winter months in extra cold weather, it can further deepen the crevasse between what you want and what you have, causing you (I mean me) to take a kind of personal inventory.

If you’re reading this, you’ve lived long enough to know that life can be shorter than we might have thought and different than we could have predicted.

The time is now…is a recurring theme.

So it was at about mid-December, amid all the holiday décor, toast-making and reassuring traditions that I started to ask myself…

Am I taking enough risk, or settled and complacent?
Are things vibrant and fierce or muted and dull?
Do I need a cold splash of water over my entire being?

In other words, am I too comfortable?

It occurred to me that I have done the stuff I’m most proud of when I’ve been pretty uncomfortable.

Giving birth.
Climbing mountains.
Facing illness.
Telling the truth.

With sub zero temps outside my window, I don’t have to look far for a little discomfort. Which got me thinking…

Most of us dwell in lives where we’re warm when we want to be, cold when we need to be, fed when we feel like it and distracted…on demand. Assuming chronic pain or crisis isn’t part of your immediate reality, comfort is mostly within arm’s reach.

Which is why any discomfort — physical, emotional – is almost always a shock to our systems, a place we flee rather than seek. Yet, being out of comfort is often precisely what provokes good work that we wouldn’t produce otherwise. I’m starting to think that for as much as I’ve tended to my personal care rituals, there may be equal mileage in finding or embracing some discomfort; withstanding what I don’t think I can stand.

If you follow Wim Hof (whose disciples include Tim Ferris, Tony Robbins and Dean Karnazes) you probably know about ice baths — or at the very least — cold showers. The wisdom behind cold exposure is that our “evolution” has made us less tolerant of the elements, and therefore more susceptible to disease and depression. Our wild, ancient human has been lost. Technically, cold-water submersion is one of a handful of practices that reconditions the hypothalamus to be more adaptive and resilient. The ability to tolerate healthy but difficult environments sharpens the senses and grows capacity, radically changing how we regard our own strengths. All of this, of course, tends to create higher performance. And toughness.

But this isn’t about ice baths or becoming harder. It’s about the dozens of opportunities that already exist in life that have us contracting or flinching, that we discard or escape — thinking they’re bad (at worst) or not useful (at best.) But what if we’re missing an opportunity? What if we could stay in the moment, feel the feelings, witness the unease, hunger, pain, and restlessness — whatever sensation descends – instead of getting out? Why not instead, go in?

Pushing physical (or other) limits to build emotional resiliency is not a new idea, but I like it as a mission, for this year especially, as I take on a fresh set of projects and some realignment on personal goals.

But how do we make the uncomfortable more of a natural habitat?

I’m taking cold showers. And I sat in the snow and took 30 breaths in a tank top the other day. I’m resisting the urge to look at my device when an answer eludes me, because I see that it’s an avoidance technique for discomfort. I’m breathing when I feel like clenching. I’m staying in the pose.

Because…

With discomfort comes expansion.
With expansion comes space; it widens the margins, makes more room.

I want that even if my bare feet have to touch the ice to find it. And yes, there are many other ways! But cold has a hold on me. Confronting and embracing it is right outside my door.

Let’s not avoid the things that grip us.
Maybe their existence is the invitation we need to be most awake.

Hello Friends,

So here we are, nine days into 2018.

I wonder how each of you cross this annual threshold. Do you have a ritual? A way to close one year…or open the next?

I like to look back on the past year and see where I can connect the dots. Were there any patterns? Was there a set point? An overall feeling … or a series of independent messages that, only in hindsight, form a greater picture?

In my own life, 2017 was a year about boundaries. What can I live with…what can’t I? How can I help make something better, without giving too much? Where am I called to action? When do I give myself permission to devote my energy elsewhere? While these are questions (as they appear on paper), in my mind’s eye, I think of them more as statements. They function as an internal GPS. The moment they are presented…the answer reveals itself. The course, suddenly clearer.

Related to this was staying in the discomfort, acknowledging how it is and (just as much) how it isn’t. Being able to exist with multiple realities, various extremes, conflicting stories, opposing views; disappointments and victories, within the same minute.

I go into this year knowing that these themes may continue, but despite them or because of them, I will commit to putting one foot in front of the other, with full presence, integrity and service. I can’t really promise more than that. I do this knowing that there are questions I can’t answer, grief’s I can’t solve, aspirations that hold a future hope — but as of yet — little evidence. There is light and joy right here, under my feet, within reach, and also the things that remain unresolved — but not unseen.

How can I answer my own calling — when sometimes I can’t even hear it?
How can I watch for signs — but still do the work — whether they show up or not?

I’m not waiting for answers. That’s not the point of the asking. But if I had a resolution, being brave enough to ask the questions would be it.

This is my work.
What is yours?

In work and life, when we think of limitations, we tend to think of them as a bad thing. At the same time, constraints also serve a purpose — and can be the impetus for actually getting something done.

More often than not, creative types appreciate knowing what’s not possible, so they can create within known parameters. Just as kids don’t ask for boundaries, but thrive within them, projects – in my experience – succeed when the walls, whether they be budget, audience or format, are known at the outset.

I recently attended a talk and book signing by the amusing, fantastic, handsome and eternally witty John Hodgman (Vacationland). During the Q&A, someone in the audience asked for advice on how to keep writing now that he was out of college and working in a bank (adorable). All the writers in the room of course knew the answer before he finished his sentence, but John said what we were all thinking:

“Create an artificial deadline. And then keep it.”

I find my own writing to be best served by a deadline because I know what I’m pushing up against. Even this blog has a self-imposed hard stop. My fantasy is that readers will be up in arms if it doesn’t show up in their inbox with regularity. But riot aside, I know that if I don’t publish once a week, I feel adrift. Writing helps me know what I think. So without it, I feel a loss. The fake deadline benefits from knowing how these stakes affect you.

The open road — as you may have discovered if you’ve ever tried to create/write/build something from scratch –  can be a paralyzing place. While I think it’s worth exploring, even a few decisions about what that thing is not going to be is immeasurably helpful in shaping what it is going to be.

It may come as a surprise, but I actually love responding to a creative brief; writing someone else’s speech, taking over a brand’s Instagram feed, channeling a founder’s voice, or even helping to craft an application to kindergarten as a favor to a nervous, non-writer parent. Why? Because it’s responsive. I know the job ahead of me. Copy writers are pro’s at becoming other people and in some ways, are professional channeler’s.

But there’s a sweet spot.

When the writing assignment looms too large, I do nothing.
When it seems too small, it feels transactional, constricting, and less sexy.

The perfect (personal) project has a wide enough berth for me to be expressive and brave, but enough of a guard rail to keep me from going off the road.

Manufacturing this magical highway, when it’s not mandated, is the work.