Good morning!
I’m back! I was in the US for a while. Originally, I thought I could write short newsletters from my phone while I was away, but the trip was so packed and I realized I shouldn’t be worrying about deliverables when I was supposed to be on vacation. But, sorry for being MIA! Here we are with Skinny Deep #17 about something I heard during the trip that felt utterly comforting and eye-opening.
On our trip to New York, my friend and I decided to take a class in a Broadway dance studio—a heels class, my first ever. And the teacher said something during the warm-up that struck me.
She had us stand with our feet together, do a relevé (the ballet term for standing on the balls of your feet, as seen above), and then she asked us to hold that position.
I watched my feet wobble in the mirror. My upper body tilted in different directions. I bit my lip and clenched my fists as if that would help me keep my balance. Over the music, the teacher shouted, pushing us to stay on our toes. And as I fought to keep myself upright and steady, she said, “It’s not about staying still. It’s about adjusting.”
I’m not a ballet dancer, but in the golden days of my cheerleader core power, I’d been taught and trained on how to hold that position: keep your core tight, butt squeezed, and imagine a straight line traversing you vertically like a barbecue stick. The only acceptable state, I always thought, was to be in full control, aware of my body, rigid as a bamboo.
Was my dance teacher saying that the key is in one’s ability to adjust? Sure, that’s one way to turn this into a broader life lesson. There were a few things I could do to hold that relevé: Put a bit more distance between my feet, turn my toes out, raise my arms slightly, or maybe even put my feet down and reset if I need to. And I did try all of those. I kept wobbling, but my face and fists were more relaxed now.
And I think it’s because I heeded her advice: I stopped trying to be perfectly still. She granted me some (literal) wiggle room, and I took it. This was the first time I considered that, maybe, holding my own—keeping myself together— was less about imagining a stick up my ass and more about accepting my own unsteadiness. It was so refreshing—this take on dealing with challenges and changes. And Pema Chodron puts it wonderfully in her book When Things Fall Apart: “We could step into uncharted territory and relax with the groundlessness of our situation.”
When I began writing this piece last week, it was a Tuesday—my second day at my new job (my third company since the pandemic and my fourth in seven years). I had just arrived from the US two nights before, which meant I was far from having recovered from jetlag (New York is twelve time zones away; it’s literally on the other side of the world). I forced myself to stay awake during the day in an attempt to fix my body clock as soon as possible. I was groggy, but I forced myself to write because I felt guilty for being away from writing for too long.
I just wanted to go back to work, back to working out, back to writing—basically, my regular programming.
But obviously, the program is not the same. And it’s not just my job.
In an earlier newsletter, I shared that I recently became a dog mom. And as it turns out, it’s demanding. As so many friends informed me after I got my little golden retriever, the puppy stage is a lot like raising a human baby, but with the advantage of a leash and fewer baths to give. It’s a full-time job—which, of course, meant major repercussions to my lifestyle. See, this cute, toy-wrecking, clingy-as-hell 5-month-old golden ball of fur we’ve named Shelby stays with my parents. And since in the family, I’m the one who has the wherewithal to train him, I’ve had to divide my time between my apartment and my parents’ house. (We do not live near each other.)
More than once I’ve been recognized for my adaptability. I try to be methodical and efficient when it comes to learning new things, taking on new projects, and settling in new situations because, truthfully, I don’t have much patience for adjusting and all its inefficiencies. I used to be so proud of that, until I realized that I could turn that on its head and see it for what it is: a deep intolerance for internal chaos.
Sure, it’s ideal to adapt quickly, but what I’m learning about adjusting is that it isn’t just figuring out the steps you have to take, but welcoming everything that comes with the process: The sloppy headspace. The slumps. The grief over old ways and old priorities. The need to slow down, maybe even to come to a full stop. The not knowing and taking stabs in the dark and just letting time and trial do their job.
True security, Oliver Burkeman writes, “lies in the unrestrained embrace of insecurity – in the recognition that we never really stand on solid ground, and never can.” Isn’t that the most relieving revelation?
But here’s what I love even more about this thought: it just makes more sense to show patience and compassion for the wobbly person you see in the mirror. As in, of course, you’re still finding your feet. Of course, it’s going to take a while. Naturally, you can’t possibly expect yourself to stay still. And that’s okay.
If you liked this, help your girl out & like this post! Or share it if you think it might resonate with someone else. You can also comment on the post or reply to this email. In any case, it’ll really motivate me! (which I definitely need, lol) ♡
PS. Here’s a video of me dancing in that heels class!