On not making ‘the work’ a competitive sport.

I was chatting with a client earlier this week who’s moving through a pretty significant breakup. In it we were discussing this tunnel, so to speak, of healing. A tunnel in which she’d look more closely at the parts of herself that brought this person, this experience, this love into her life. Right now, though, she’s hugging the edges. Filling her days with an endless stream of viral TikTok videos and podcasts so there’s never too much of a vacant moment such that the thoughts of the breakup can flood in. 

Years ago a friend of mine (you may have heard her on the podcast) started raving about this course she’d taken in intuitive movement. Your body tells a story! She chirped. Just by the way you move! It will crack you open.

I knew my body told a story. I did not want to know that story. 

I’d been slightly attempting to figure out that story for the better part of a decade by way of therapy and specifically, sex therapy, but none of that ever felt too good (or lead to much beyond “It’s all in your head.”). And yet I knew there was something to be learned in this course. The nature of the resistance felt the same as it always did when I was faced with something I knew I should do, but didn’t want to do for fear of learning what was under the proverbial hood.

In my late 20s and well into my 30s, I treated “the work,” on myself as equal parts a competitive sport and a to do list. If I can just blow through all this trauma and pain, I’ll get to the healing— and the subsequent prize (money, love, a better body) sooner. That will not only make my life better but me better, as a person. At the same time, though, I found myself staring enviously at friends and colleagues who seemed to be fine with their flaws. They seemed to struggle in a normal way—not too much, not too little. They didn’t carry this obsessive need to fix themselves. They could just sort of be in life.

What if everything you were doing right now was fine? I asked said client. What if nothing was wrong with the nightly 90-minute scroll of Instagram reels? (I was simultaneously uttering the same thing to myself.)

Last spring, on the heels of a two week stint in Costa Rica and period of wearing mostly bathing suits and sun dresses without underwear, I decided to sign up for the intuitive movement course. I had “been in my body,” for the past two weeks and that felt GOOD and had resulted in more sex and a better relationship with my partner, so ok fine, let’s stay on the body healing train. Once back in New York I attended the information session and promptly submitted my credit card for payment. The courses didn’t start for a few months but in my to-do-list-checking-way, I was getting it done. I could pat myself on the back and deem myself a better person.

A few weeks out from the course, I’d heard nothing. I was under the impression we were to receive prep materials and initial instructions to prepare for the class. Instead I felt a bit lost and out of sorts. I emailed the instructor asking if I’d missed anything. She quickly replied saying my name must have fallen off the list but she’d get me everything that week. “Everything,” never came. In a moment of haste, I cancelled my registration. I told myself it was because the organization appeared “disorganized,” and if I was supposed to enter a space where I had to bear my soul and trauma and wounding well then God damnit, I was going to feel SAFE. 

Six months later, a former client and now friend texted me:

Do you know any good courses/programs to help deal with body image issues?

Of course I did. I knew a very good one. Despite my own run around, it was the only one I’d recommend. I sent her the link.

This looks interesting! She replied.

I felt the same way. I wanted to register again. This time, though, it didn’t feel as punitive. What before felt like a trap door I was about to open, filled with a bevy of secrets about my own terrible-ness that I’d yet to discover now felt more palatable. I was genuinely curious. Not to discover something bad, but simply, to be more deeply with myself.

When I cancelled the course the first time, despite the reasoning I drew, I felt ashamed. I just want to bury the whole thing and pretend it didn’t exist. It never dawned on me that of my own volition, when my body was ready, it would lead me back. This birthed a new level of self trust.

I’m not worried about you. You’ll find your way into the tunnel eventually. Bit by bit, something will push you inward. And you very much have the tools to handle yourself once you get in there. These were the words I uttered to my client in the final moments of our session, which also happened to be the final session of her container.

My class starts this Saturday and I’m genuinely excited. I’m excited to be in someone else’s container, to be lead to parts of myself I’ve yet to understand or uncover, to connect with what are bound to be some incredible women. I feel less attached to the pre-conceived problems my body is holding and more so the mystery that will unfold, undoubtedly alongside a few tears, but I can handle that.