Standing In The Crowd

Choosing spaces wisely.

Forged is a word that keeps coming up for me this week. As in, sturdy; fortified; tested. That’s how I feel about myself now. Stronger. I Googled the word for its meaning because I love to know the root of words and names. “Copied fraudulently; fake.” I winced. That was not what I was going for. I meant like, in the fire. I searched for that. “Strength through adversity. The strongest steel is forged by the fires of hell. It is pounded and struck repeatedly before it’s plunged back into the molten fires. The fire gives it power and flexibility, and the blows give it strength. Those two things make the metal pliable and able to withstand every battle it’s called upon to fight.” -Sherrilyn Kenyon. Chills spread goosebumps across my skin. I had my meaning.

Later, I was struck by the absolute difference of these definitions. One is the fabrication of a thing, while the other is the mightiest, most stable, truest version of a thing. The variation is the meaning that is applied to it. 

When I abruptly decided to leave my (cool AF) job on a cruise ship to run across America and raise half a million dollars for MS, I filtered my feed. Books, music, podcasts, people, places and things were all screened. If there was a touch of doubt or negativity, especially in regard to my ambitious direction, it was gone. If it was a person I couldn’t shed, they received an impassioned ear-full so forceful that they thought twice before ever voicing their disbelief again.  

In the years since, I’ve matured in a way that made me feel it necessary to bear witness to the world’s hurts to a degree that I wouldn’t have done those years ago. I felt an obligation to educate myself and show up. To hear what was being said and support where I could. I stayed in my lane, because I know my purpose and where I’m most effective. But I could be helpful by being a supporting body. 

Or could I?

I’ve found that for myself, weekly and sometimes daily digestion of the plethora of injustices seeping through the world in an effort to be supportive have only made me disgusted with this place and terribly ineffective. Look at all this hate, my passionate voice would yell inside my head. I am not a stand-by-and-do-nothing person. My passionate voice is l.o.u.d. And so I would look. What came after was a sadness, and an anger, and a helplessness so unrelenting that the only respectable emotion that my body would allow was depression. “What is the point of organizing a run across America when there are sweet, little children just like mine without food?”, I’d think. My family gives in support and offers our time, but the meaningful change I am desperate to see doesn’t happen quickly and parts of myself clamored to do more while the practical side of me, thankfully, directed me to work where I was. As I looked on and on again, I felt ineffective against it all. The what’s-the-point thoughts increased, so often so that my purpose nearly lost its meaning. 

Nearly.

What I’ve found is that I can’t witness this much. I’ve known all along that I couldn’t take everything on and I hoped that by showing up in the crowd for others I’d be helpful. For me, its done more damage than I’m willing to accept. I can’t help people take action by speaking about purpose and turning ideas into plans if I’m depressed and adrift.

So, I’m reevaluating and I already feel the good swelling from the shift. By seeing me crush it in my lane, I hope to create change by giving people the courage to crush it in theirs. And we need more good people absolutely crushing it.

The world is complex–both painful and beautiful. Heavy and uplifting. Mean and supportive. Shallow and deep. Hateful and loving. It’s the same world and two very different experiences. The only change is the way I decide to look at it.